The Young Ones
by Melisssa
Summary: Havoc ensues when the Young Ones are forced to share a flat with another bizzare group . . .
1. The Meeting

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part One: The Meeting**

"Well here we are guys, home sweet home," said Mike, stepping out of the passenger seat of a yellow car. His normal casual facade was replaced by a mixture of forlorn disgust as he eyed his surroundings. The place was a drab sort of grey. It looked unkempt and yet it had an almost lived-in quality about it. He stepped closer to the wooden door behind which held his new home. He sighed, shook his head mournfully and turned to face his three companions two of whom seemed to be having a pushing contest in an attempt to get out of the car first. The third, a tall man with long scraggly hair, approached Mike gloomily. He, too, noticed the grim surroundings.   
Mike returned to contemplating the door. It seemed to him that something was terribly wrong with this situation, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He noticed his remaining two companions had successfully pushed each other from the car and were glancing around with similar looks of apprehension and dislike.   
"God! Just look at this place!" said Rick who had managed to successfully remove a car air freshener from his eye. "What a dump!"   
Neil came round to his shoulder. "Oh I don't know, Rick. It's not so bad. I mean look, you can see the beach from here . . ."   
"Shut up, Neil!" interjected Rick.   
"And look," continued Neil undeterred, "it's even got a front door."   
"Our last place had a front door!" shouted Vyvyan, the fourth man, an then for good measure added, "hippie!"   
"Well yeah, but it had a huge hole in it," Neil replied indicating a space of about a foot between his hands.   
"Yes, which you put there, Vyvyan!" Rick added.   
"It was brilliant! We could see who was at the door before we opened it!" said Vyvyan grinning broadly.   
"Maybe it would have been brilliant, Vyvyan, if you hadn't then cut it into tiny pieces and nailed it to the ceiling," said Rick.   
"Well, I had too. I was drunk."   
"That's no excuse young man! And if anything happens to this door," Rick began, wagging his finger at Vyvyan, "I'll ruddy well . . . I'll . . . well, I don't know what exactly, but it'll be bad!" He sighed. "Anyway, it's your fault we were thrown out!"   
"It was just a game," Vyvyan said almost sheepishly.   
"A game!? And I suppose it was just a game when Hitler annexed the Sudentenlands, was it? I suppose it was just a game when Margaret Thatcher decided to make herself military dictator of England!?"   
"I thought Oliver Cromwell was the only British dictator, Rick," said Neil.   
Rick glanced at him. "Well yes him too." He turned his attention back to Vyvyan. "Anyway, the point is it's your fault . . ."   
Vyvyan, having had enough, backhanded Rick in the face.   
"Ow," said Rick, clutching his nose. "Yes, uh," he continued slightly less sure of himself, "as I was saying it's all _your_ fault, _Neil_, that we were thrown out!"   
"Me? I thought it was because Vyvyan set fire to the living room."   
"True enough Neil," Vyvyan conceded amicably, "but I was only _trying_ to set your trousers on fire."   
"Yeah, while I was in them."   
"Exactly!"   
"Yeah!" Rick supplied.   
"If you hadn't started running around the screaming like a little girl, the living room wouldn't have caught fire!"   
"That's right, hippie! It's all your fault," said Rick and was promptly hit once more by Vyvyan.   
It was then that Mike, who had been calmly watching the scene unfold, spoke up. "Okay guys, now that the plot's been established, shall we enter?"   
"Yes, all right," came the muffled agreement from the other three.   
"Right. As one incontinent said to the other, let's go," said Mike. With that the group grabbed their scattered belongings and headed toward 1334 Beechwood.   
  
Meanwhile, inside sat Micky, Peter, Davy and Mike Nesmith. The four were huddled around their small kitchen table oblivious to the mayhem erupting outside. They all had the appearance of men who were trying to think. Judging by the looks on their faces, none of them had had much luck, especially Peter. They had spent the better half of an hour in a state of uneventful silence. Currently, Peter was looking disconsolately at nothing. Mike was involved in a fierce staring contest with the table. Micky and Davy, on the other hand, were engaged in a life or death struggle. For the moment, all was quiet while the battle raged on. Finally Micky broke the silence, shouting, "Tic-tac-toe! Three in a row! You're dead, Dave!"   
"Oh!" yelled Davy, "you got me . . . right in the kidney! Help Mike."   
Mike ignored the out burst.   
Davy went on. "I still say you're cheating, Micky. I demand a recount!"   
"Very well," said Micky, glancing at the paper. "Let's see, one . . . two . . . three X's in a row, I win!"   
"Anyway, how can you cheat at tic-tac-toe?" asked Peter.   
Davy thought for a moment while Micky gave himself a congratulatory pat on the back.   
"I don't know, but if there's a way, no doubt Fuzzy here would find it," he said gesturing toward a grinning Micky.   
Mike finally spoke up. "Come on guys, this is serious. If we don't find a way to make some money soon, Mr. Babbit says he's gonna throw us out."   
"Mr. Babbit always says that," said Micky, still grinning from ear to ear.   
"Yeah," replied Mike in his Texan drawl, "and he always means it."   
"True, but he's never actually done it," said Davy. " . . . except that one time."   
"And don't forget the time after that," Micky added jovially.   
"And of course there was that one other time," Davy added catching on to Micky's cheerful spirit.   
"Guys I'm serious. We don't have any money, and if we don't have money we can't pay the rent, and if we can't pay the rent he's gonna kick us out," Mike lectured.   
Micky grinned. "Come on, he wouldn't really do it!"   
"What about Milly?" asked Peter.   
"Yeah," agreed Mike. "Remember when he kicked us out and rented the pad to Milly?"   
"Oh yeah," said Davy.   
Micky turned to Peter. "Ya know, Pete, for dummy you're pretty smart."   
"Thanks, Mick." Peter smiled.   
"Come on guys, we aren't getting anywhere. What are we gonna do?" asked Mike.   
"Why don't we rob a bank?" supplied Micky.   
"No."   
"We could try our luck in Vegas!" suggested Davy.   
"No!"   
"We could go on a treasure hunt!" said Peter excitedly.   
"NO!" Mike yelled. He stood up and began pacing. "What we need is a good idea."   
"Why don't we ask Mr. Schneider?" Micky suggested.   
"Ya know Mick, I think that's the best idea anyone's had all day."   
Davy grinned. "Sad isn't it?"   
Mike walked over to where Mr. Schneider, their wooden advisor, sat and pulled the chord to make him speak. "I am a fish," it said.   
A dismayed look crossed Mike's face. "That was helpful," he said sarcastically.   
Silence hung over the group as each contemplated what could be done. Suddenly, Peter jumped up from his seat. "I know! I know!" he shouted happily. "Why don't we . . ."   
The others leaned in expectantly.   
". . . get a gig!"   
"Because Peter," Mike tried once more to calmly explain for the third time that day, "if anyone was willing to hire us, we wouldn't be sitting here trying to figure out how to make some extra money!"   
"We could get a real job," Davy suggested.   
Micky's eyes widened. "Perish the thought!" he exclaimed bringing his hands to his chest in mock horror.   
This elicited a smile from all present, even Mike, but as the good humour died so did the discussion. No one spoke for several moments. Peter went back to looking disconsolately at nothing. Mike, acknowledging his prior forfeit, resumed staring fiercely at the table. "We're getting nowhere fast," Micky mumbled as he and Davy began another game.   
Picking up his pencil Davy murmured just barely loud enough for the others to hear, "May as well hire tenants." It was then that they heard a very loud thump. It sounded as though someone had hurled their entire body at the door.   
  
"Vyvyan stop it! You're just going to break it!" shouted Rick as Vyvyan hurled himself head first at the door.   
"I think you'd better find the key quickly, Rick, or we're not going to have a front door for Vyvyan to nail to the ceiling," said Mike.   
"I'm looking," he said searching madly through his trouser pockets. "I know it's in here somewhere."   
"Well, there's plenty of room for it in there!" shouted Vyvyan as he staggered backwards and ran once more for the door.   
"Oh ha! ha! Vyvyan. I suppose you think you're _so_ clever," Rick said searching through his jacket.   
As Vyvyan hit the door the second time there was a distinct crack, but no visible damage. "Yes, I do actually!" he said stumbling away.   
"Oh no! Heavy!" cried Neil. "Vyvyan's going to wreck the house and we haven't even moved in yet. Quick Mike do something."   
"Rick, I hate to put undo pressure on you, but we need that key!"   
"I'm looking, Michael!" he shouted. "Now where did I put it," he mumbled to himself. "Oh I remember," he said pulling a string from around his neck. At the end of the string was the key in question.   
Unfortunately for Rick and the door, Vyvyan had already begun his final assault and after a loud crack, he found himself deposited on the floor inside the flat. "Brilliant!" he shouted and promptly stood up to find himself facing four wide-eyed young men. "Hello!" he said cheerily enough. "Who the bloody hell are you?"   
Micky, Davy, Mike and Peter found themselves staring mouths a-gape at this strange man, and strange he was indeed complete with spiked orange hair and metal studs in his forehead. Mike was the first to recover himself. "What have you done to the door!?"   
Vyvyan looked at the splintered pieces of wood at his feet and replied, "I've broken it."   
"Oh very good Vyvyan! Very good! If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, break in the bloody door!" said Rick as he, Mike and Neil picked their way though the remains.   
"I just have!"   
"Uh, no Vyvyan, that's not quite what I meant. You see . . ." Rick cut himself off in mid sentence having just noticed he was in mixed company. A look of surprise crossed his face but changed quickly to annoyance before he let out with, "Who the bloody hell are you?"   
"I've already asked them that!" Vyvyan told him.   
"Well have they answered you?"   
"No."   
"Then obviously you didn't do it right, did you?!"   
"Now hold on guys," said Mike coming from behind them with Neil in tow. "Mike TheCoolPerson will handle this. Now," he began, addressing the four confused men, "who the bloody hell are you?"   
There was a brief pause while Micky, Davy, Mike and Peter tried desperately to remember who they were. There was a slightly longer pause while they decided if they wanted to give that information to these four strangers. Finally Peter, the most trustful of the group, spoke up. "We're the Monkees," he said.   
"Oh, monkeys are you?!" laughed Rick with a snort. "I supposed you hang from trees, eat bananas and play with yourselves in public, do you?"   
"Mike, what are we gonna do?" Neil asked nervously. "Vyvyan's broken our door, and we've got squatters in our new flat who think they're monkeys!"   
"I've never seen anyone playing with themselves from a tree," Vyvyan said approaching Davy suspiciously. Davy froze in fear, not so much as breathing, while the man looked him over thoroughly.   
"I don't think I'd want to see it," added Neil as Vyvyan, apparently satisfied though still watching through squinted eyes, backed away from a very relieved Davy Jones.   
Peter was just about to explain when Mike took the initiative and spoke up. "Now wait just a minute. This is our house . . ."   
"In the middle of our street?" Rick asked with a smirk.   
Mike continued unabated, "Who do you think you are!?"   
"I'm Mike TheCoolPerson, and I don't think, baby, I know. Now the question is, what are _you_ doing in _our_ house. Shut up, Rick," he added before Rick could open his mouth. "This _is_ madness, but I'm not talking about the band."   
The Texan Mike shot the British Mike a confounded look, but went on. "You must have the wrong address there shotgun, because we live here."   
"This is 1334 Beechwood, isn't it?"   
"Yes, but . . ." began the tall Texan.   
"This is the address Mr. Balowski gave us. Have you considered that you're in the wrong house?"   
Mike eyed the shorter man quizzically at an obvious loss for words.   
Micky came to Mike's defence. "Of course we're in the right house! Look . . ."   
"Right. Rick!"   
Rick looked up as though startled to have been brought into the conversation. "Yes Mike?"   
"Check the key."   
"What?" said Rick, not comprehending.   
"Check the key!" said the shorter of the two Mikes.   
Confused, Rick took the key from around his neck, held it at arms length in front of his face and began to study it intently. It was obvious he had no idea what he should be checking for. He held the key that way for several seconds while Vyvyan and Neil helped from over his shoulders.   
Finally Rick spoke up. "It looks okay to me." Vyvyan and Neil nodded in agreement.   
"No, no, no. I mean check it in the door."   
Rick looked toward Vyvyan and Neil for support but received none. He headed for the doorway, but thanks to Vyvyan found no door there. He stood eyeing the remains of the door left in the frame, his hand to his chin. The look was similar to that of person in a museum who, in a weak attempt to convince others that they understand art, contemplates a painting which looks like nothing more than a bunch of squiggly lines, but has a pretentious title such as "The Effect of Television Violence in the Desensitization of Youth." In other words, like the museum goer, Rick was completely stumped. Standing amidst the door rubble, he began to study the key once more.   
Mike shook his head. "See if it opens the lock!" he called.   
"Oh," Rick said, comprehension dawning at last. He found the lock not only in one piece but surprising still attached to what was left of the door. He inserted the key, turned the knob and pushed open the door. A look of triumph crossed his face as the remnants of the ravaged door crumbled to the floor leaving only the handle in his hand. "It works!" he cried throwing away the useless handle and slapping bits of wood grain from his clothes.   
"Well lads looks like we're home," said Mike as he, Rick, Neil and Vyvyan made themselves comfortable in the living room. Plunked in various chairs, they seemed to the other four occupants to be as solid and immovable as the pyramids.   
Mike Nesmith walked over to the still gaping forms of Micky, Davy and Peter. "What are we gonna do, Mike?" whispered the latter of the three. 

"Look don't worry. This has got to be some sort of mistake. We'll get this sorted out," he said sounding more assured than he felt. "I'll call Mr. Babbit and see if he knows who they are. You guys keep an eye on them."


	2. The Barricade

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part Two: The Barricade**

"I just don't know, man. It looks like we're stuck with them for now," Mike said. Davy, Micky, Mike and Peter were sitting on the back patio looking about as cheerful as a turkey a week before Thanksgiving. Their new "roommates" were inside huddled around the television oblivious to the other four's discomfort.   
"You couldn't reach Mr. Babbit at all?" asked Peter.   
"Nope. I've been trying for the past hour. I must have called twenty times, and I've been up to his apartment twice."   
"It's got to be some kind of mistake. I mean, come on! Mr. Babbit wouldn't do something like this to us, his favourite tenants," said Micky.   
The others shot him dubious looks.   
"Look, even Mr. Babbit would have told us if he'd rented this place out again," Davy said firmly and then added, "wouldn't he?"   
"I know!" said Micky suddenly jumping up. "We have to take action! This is war! Are you with me men?!"   
The others glanced at him quizzically. Micky took their silence in stride and went on.   
"Here's the plan," he said producing a map that looked nothing like the pad which, upon closer inspection, proved to be a field somewhere in Outer Mongolia. "We wait 'till they're asleep, and then," he paused, glancing at each man in turn for dramatic effect, "we strike! We throw them all out the window and barricade the door!" he said almost maniacally.   
"What door?" asked Davy.   
"The front door."   
"We don't have a front door anymore," Mike reminded him.   
"Oh yeah," Micky paused for a moment considering this. "Well then we barricade the back door!"   
"And what happens when they come in through the front door?" Mike queried.   
Micky shrugged. "Well, every plan has it's flaws."   
"Come on guys, we have to think _sensibly_," said Mike. Once more, the dubious looks returned.   
"I don't suppose we could marry _them_ off," stated Davy with an impish grin.   
"Why don't we just go talk to them," suggested Peter an innocent smile playing across his face. "Maybe they know what's going on."   
"I never thought I'd say this, but good idea, Pete!" Micky said, when suddenly, he heard a shattering sound. All four spun around to see what was the matter. "Or than again, maybe not."   
  
"God I'm bored," said Vyvyan. "We've only been here an hour and I'm totally, mind-numbingly, stupidly bored."   
Rick grinned. "Well _you_ didn't have very far go, Vyvyan."   
Vyvyan ignored Rick's comment. Instead of responding, he got up from his seat in front of the television, picked the chair up previously occupied by his bottom, walked over to the kitchen and threw it out the window. "Even mindless violence seems dull today." He picked up another chair from the kitchen, walked back over to where he'd been sitting, put it in the space where his last chair been, picked it back up and smashed it over Rick's head.   
"What was that for!?" exclaimed Rick.   
"I was bored!" Vyvyan hollered.   
"Well thank you, Vyvyan! That's just what I needed to make my television watching experience more enjoyable!" Rick said sarcastically.   
"Was it?" asked Vyvyan. He picked up a nearby lamp and, like the chair, smashed it over Rick's head.   
"You bastard!" shouted Rick leaping up from his seat on the sofa clutching his head. "You knew I was being sarcastic!"   
"No I didn't!" Vyvyan hollered in reply.   
"Yes you did!"   
"Didn't!"   
"Did!"   
"Didn't!"   
"Did!"   
"Look, guys," Mike said commandingly. "I'm trying to watch T.V. And while I'm certain your conversation's intellectual content alone is worth my attention, I'd rather watch Scooby Doo. So be quiet or I'll have to do something drastic."   
"Sorry Mike," Rick and Vyvyan muttered as they settled down in their previous positions before the television. Rick looked furtively from Mike on his right to Vyvyan on his left and after a few moments, spoke up.   
"Anyway, Vyvyan started it!"   
"No I didn't!" shouted Vyvyan.   
"Did!"   
"Didn't!"   
"You did so!" retorted Rick picking up a nearby vase and dropping it over Vyvyan's head.   
"Now that," Vyvyan began, grabbing Rick by the collar, "was not very nice."   
Rick responded by tweaking Vyvyan on the arm.   
"So it's a fight you want!?"   
"Guys, guys," Neil intervened peacefully. "We shouldn't be fighting like this . . ."   
Rick and Vyvyan glanced at each other. "No?" asked Rick.   
Vyvyan let go of Rick's jacket. "How should be be fighting, Neil?"   
"No. I mean, like, we should be nice to each other. You know, live in peace and harmony and, like, love our fellow man, right."   
"Ha!" shouted Rick as Vyvyan punched Neil in the stomach and threw him into the nearest wall. "I suppose you've loved a lot of your fellow men, have you?" laughed Rick with a snort.   
"Yeah! You pervy!" added Vyvyan.   
"So that's what you get up to with your hippie friends, is it!? Smoke a little something . . . down come the trousers and out come the willies! It's no wonder the pigs are always after your type."   
"Yeah, they probably want to watch," added Vyvyan.   
"That's not true guys!" Neil pleaded from the floor.   
Vyvyan grinned. "Right, now where were we?" he asked heading in Rick's direction.   
Rick thought for a moment. "Uh, you were just about to hit me in the face."   
"Oh, right."   
"Okay that's it," Mike began before Vyvyan could complete his task. "I didn't want to do this, but you've left me no alternative."   
"What Mike?" asked Neil as he picked himself up off the floor.   
"I'm calling a house meeting."   
"A house meeting!" echoed the others in unison.   
"That's right. In the broom cupboard in," he paused to glance down at his watch, "fifteen seconds."   
At that announcement, the four men all darted off in different directions. They hadn't gone far when they realized something rather important. Each stopped dead in his tracks and stared ahead. Slowly, the group converged in the exact place from which they'd departed. They stood glancing at the floor not wanting to make eye contact. It was Neil who asked the all-important question.   
"Where _is_ the broom cupboard, Mike?"   
"That's a very good question, Neil." He paused showing no sign of continuing. A few moments passed while he casually surveyed the room. Sighing as though the house had let him down, he finally continued. "Never mind, lads, we'll go to plan B. House meeting, _kitchen_," he glanced down at his watch, "fifteen seconds." Just as before, all four men ran off in different directions. After about 30 seconds and a surprisingly small amount of damage, they all settled at the kitchen table.   
"Now," began Mike clapping his hands. He paused surveying those assembled. "Wait a minute, where are the others? When Mike TheCoolPerson calls a house meeting, he expects the whole house to show." They all looked toward the patio where the Monkees could be seen through the glass doors. When the four men there showed no sign of moving, Mike continued. "Vyvyan go and get our simian friends, will you?"   
"What?"   
"He means those monkey fellows," Rick explained.   
"Huh?"   
"The people on the porch!" Rick explained further.   
"Oh!" said Vyvyan, standing up.   
Rick shook is head in frustration, adding, "And hurry up!"   
Vyvyan took off running for the patio doors. Upon reaching them, however, he decided opening them would be too easy and instead rammed his head through the glass.   
Micky, Davy, Mike and Peter whirled around. "Or than again, maybe not," said Micky.   
"What the . . ." began Mike.   
"Don't you people ever _open_ the door?" asked Micky.   
"Sometimes! Anyway, your presence is required in the kitchen," he said, his head still poking through the shattered pane.   
"What?" asked Davy.   
"We're having a house meeting in the kitchen!" he shouted before dislodging his head and staggering away.   
None of them moved for a long time as though stillness would make their problems go away. Finally, Davy gathered the courage to peer around the corner into the kitchen. The scene was frighteningly normal. Frightening in that he'd almost expected something completely ludicrous, like say a satanic ritual or a mass orgy. Instead, he saw Vyvyan had plunked himself down in a chair and was engrossed in picking at his fingernails, Neil was hustling nervously around the kitchen searching through the cabinets, Mike, the other Mike that is, sat leaning back in his chair, his feet positioned casually on the table, and Rick sat legs crossed staring smugly towards the patio. Upon noticing Davy, he glanced down at his watch expectantly. His eyes wide from the strangely ordinary scene, Davy looked to his friends. He was about to speak when . . .   
"Well guys, looks like we've been called," said Micky heading inside. "Sure you don't want to barricade the door?"   
Peter followed Micky inside then, reluctantly, so did Davy while Mike stood his ground a moment thinking. "Nah!" he said after some consideration before following the others to the kitchen. 


	3. Taxi Man

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part Three: Taxi Man**

The scene in the kitchen was not a pretty one. All eight men -- Mike, Micky, Peter, Davy, Neil, Vyvyan, Rick and Mike -- sat huddled around the tiny table which at most was designed to seat four. So far they'd gotten absolutely nowhere. It had, in fact, been going so poorly that no one had yet said anything, and they'd been at it for nearly _thirty_ seconds. Both Mikes, the leaders of their respective groups, appeared as if they wanted to speak, but neither seemed sure how to proceed. Another thirty seconds passed, and the silence grew as everyone present tried desperately to avoid making eye contact with a member of the "opposing" group. Most appeared to be attempting to bore holes in the floor with the sheer power of their eyes only pausing to steal quick glances at one of the Mikes, both of whom appeared lost in thought.   
Had anyone in the group been empathic, they would have discovered Mike Nesmith was going over the events of the day in his mind furiously trying to figure a way out their current mess that would benefit both parties, but try as he might he could think of nothing that would help them. What annoyed him most was that he could think of no way to broach the subject to the others.   
The other Mike was also "hard" at thought. The reason for this being that he was mentally undressing Felicity Kendal and could really have cared less about the events of the day.   
Finally, just when it seemed the silence would all but devour them, those who were paying attention that is . . .   
Micky sighed. "Well this is getting us nowhere fast."   
"He's right ya know," agreed Davy.   
"Neil," Rick began turning toward the hippie, "what happened to the lentil nibbles you were making?"   
"It's the weirdest thing guys," Neil answered. "I looked through the whole kitchen, everywhere, and I didn't find a single lentil. None. I think, right, someone must have snuck in, stolen them, left everything else in the house, and then run off."   
"Stolen lentils?!" Rick asked in near exasperation. "That's ridiculous! Who the hell would steal lentils?! Homicidal hippies? Or maybe it was magic lentil fairies!"   
Neil frowned in thought for a moment, when suddenly a thought seemed to grab him. "I bet, right, it's the same ones who chewed up my term paper and are always stealing my socks."   
"No," said Vyvyan. "SPG's the one who ate you term paper, and Rick has been stealing your socks."   
"I have not!" Rick shouted in response. "What would I want with _Neil's_ socks?" he asked nervously, accenting "Neil" derisively.   
"He uses them to stuff down his trousers!" answered Vyvyan.   
"That's a lie!" Rick shouted. He started to stand, but glanced nervously at his crotch and thought better of it. Instead, he sat back down and crossed his legs.   
"Rick! You didn't?!" Neil asked horrified.   
"Of course not!" he began, fidgeting nervously. "I would never put anything that had been on Neil's feet down my trousers." He nodded as though accepting the answer himself. Neil frowned at his feet suspiciously.   
There was a brief pause before Vyvyan said, "If we don't start this meeting soon, I'm going down the pub."   
"You can't go to the pub, Vyvyan," countered Rick.   
"Why not?" Vyvyan almost shouted.   
"Because if we went to the pub we wouldn't be having a _house_ meeting, would we?" Rick explained smugly, prompting Vyvyan to hit him in face.   
"No wait, Vyv, he's right," said Neil. "It would be, like, a _pub_ meeting." As with Rick, Vyvyan proceeded to smack Neil in the face.   
Davy leaned over to Neil and asked, "Does he always do that?"   
"No," answered Neil. "Usually he uses a cricket bat." He paused, thinking. "Or a pan, or an axe, or the telly, or a window, or a wall, or . . ."   
"All right guys," Mike interrupted, "I don't want to be a drag, but Rick's right."   
Still clutching his head from the blow Vyvyan had dealt him, Rick looked up in astonishment. "I am?" he asked in utter disbelief.   
"Yes, no one's going anywhere until we get this straightened out."   
"Why Mike," Neil began. "Is it crooked?"   
Mike sighed. "Vyv."   
Nodding, Vyvyan grabbed a glass from the table and broke it on top of Neil's head.   
Davy leaned over to a slightly woozy Neil. "I see what you mean."   
Mike Nesmith decided it was time to speak up. "He's right . . ."   
"I am?" asked Davy.   
"No not you. Mike, the other Mike," Mike said gesturing toward Mike.   
"Of course I am," was the other Mike's reply.   
Micky looked up thoughtfully. "This is really going to get confusing."   
Mike, Monkee-Mike that is, chose to ignore the interruptions. "We've got to think this through logically."   
"Well that's us knackered then!" interjected Vyvyan.   
Mike glared at him, but continued. "There must have been some kind of mistake. Surely Mr. Babbit, or your landlord Mr. Balowski would have told us something. They wouldn't just throw us together and hope we make the best of it, would they?" He said this commandingly, but the words sounded hollow. _Or would they_, he thought to himself. The group mulled this thought over in forlorn silence.   
Suddenly, a bell sounded. "Brrring! Brrring!"   
Micky, Davy, Mike, and Peter looked around quizzically.   
"Brrring! Brrring!" the bell said again.   
"There's someone at the door," the other Mike said showing no indication of answering it.   
"What door?" Peter asked.   
"Brrring! Brrring! Brrring!" The bell seemed to be getting louder.   
Rick sighed. "There's someone at the door!" he said emphatically to no one in particular. He, too, showed no sign of getting up.   
"Wait a minute, we don't have door bell," Micky said, a confused look on his face. At that remark, everyone's eyes darted toward the doorway just as the bell entered the room in the form of a man on a bike. He stopped the bike in front of the crowded table, rang the bell, "Brrring! Brrring!" and shouted, "Someone call for a taxi?"   
"Billy Balowski!" Rick, Mike, Neil and Vyvyan said at the same time.   
"Who's he?" asked Micky staring at the newcomer. "Is _he_ your landlord?"   
Rick sighed, "No, it's _Billy_ Balowski! Don't you listen?"   
"Oh," Micky said though he obviously didn't understand.   
Billy got off his bike to show he was wearing a smudged grey overcoat buttoned all the way up with black trousers underneath.   
"Who called for a taxi?" he shouted again.   
"A taxi?" asked Davy. "You must be joking."   
Billy walked toward the table and addressed Davy. "Why don't you stand up and say that to my face?" he said threateningly.   
"I am standing up."   
"No you're not," Vyvyan told him.   
Davy looked down and noticed his bottom was still in the chair. He stood and repeated, "I am standing up."   
"All right, enough with the corny catch phrases," said the shorter Mike. He looked at Davy, "Sit down, shorty. I'll handle this."   
Davy sat. Mike continued, "Now what do you want Billy? Did Jerzei Balowski send you?"   
"No," Billy replied. He grinned stupidly and continued. "Me _brother_ sent me!"   
"Jerzei is your brother," said Rick.   
"No!" Billy paused, "He's me _brother_."   
"Look, what do you want!?" Rick yelled, obviously annoyed.   
"Who called for a taxi?" Billy reiterated, a bit more slowly.   
"No one called for a taxi," Micky said, confused.   
"Right, I'll be off them," he said picking up his bike and heading for the missing door.   
"No wait! Wait!" Mike began again. "Hold on Billy. Rick called the taxi."   
"What? No I didn't!" He looked around frantically for a scapegoat. "It was Vyvyan!" he finally proclaimed.   
"No it wasn't," Vyvyan said looking up, "it was Neil."   
"No it wasn't, it was . . . me," Neil finished while a confused look crossed his face.   
Billy crossed the floor a bit impatiently and spoke to Neil. "That'll be ten quid."   
"Ten quid? But I don't want to go anywhere."   
Flustered, Billy shouted, "Then why'd you call for the fucking taxi?!"   
Neil fidgeted about nervously and was just about to reply when Rick leaned over to Mike. "A fucking taxi? That would certainly make transportation more interesting, wouldn't it?" he said with a snort.   
"Rick?" Mike began.   
"Yes, Mike?"   
"Shut up."   
"No, I don't think you understand. I mean a 'fucking taxi' . . ."   
"I know Rick, just shut up."   
"The taxi could actually fu . . ."   
"We know Rick, we know!"   
"Rick!" Vyvyan interjected. "Shut up, or I'll kill you!"   
"Fine!" Rick shouted and began to sulk. "Besides, none of you would know a good joke if it flew across the room and hit you in the face!"   
Suddenly, seeming to come from nowhere, a small blob of fur hurled itself across the room toward Rick's head. Rick screamed as it viciously attacked him. "Shut up, ya rat bastard!" it said in a distinct Scottish accent.   
"SPG!" Vyvyan yelled smiling. "I wondered where he'd got to."   
"Ahhhh!" Rick cried as the tiny creature threw him to the floor.   
"What _is_ that?" Peter asked fearfully, backing away.   
"That's my hamster," Vyvyan answered casually as Rick tried desperately to free himself form the creature's grasp.   
Ignoring the carnage, Mike Nesmith stepped forward and addressed Billy. "You're their landlord's brother, right?"   
Billy seemed to ponder this carefully before answering. "Right," he said suspiciously.   
"Do you know what's going on here?"   
Billy looked around. He gestured toward a screaming Rick. "It looks like your friend's being murdered by a hamster."   
"Ahhhh! Vyvyan get it off!" Rick yelled.   
For his part, Vyvyan just watched excitedly, a grin on his face.   
"Uh, Vyv," Neil began tentatively, "Shouldn't we, ya know, help Rick?"   
"What ever for, Neil?"   
"Well, he's spilling blood all over the carpet."   
Reluctantly, Vyvyan agreed, and the two began pulling SPG from Rick's body. Mike continued his interrogation amidst the rumble.   
"No, I mean, do you know why . . ." he began, but was interrupted.   
"Billy, did Jerzei give you a message for us?" the other Mike said.   
"No," he said. "He gave me a _message_ for ya!"   
"Well can we have it?" asked Micky coming around to join the negotiations. Peter followed closely behind, but was careful not to take his eyes off the hamster as it madly tried to burrow through Rick's chest.   
Billy followed Peter's gaze before answering. He saw Vyvyan lean over Rick's writhing body, pluck the furry little critter from its victim and violently hurl it through a closed window. Vyvyan grinned as Rick slowly got up, desperately trying to wipe the tears from his face before anyone could see.   
"I suppose you think that's funny, Vyvyan!" he yelled.   
"Yes I do," said Vyvyan who had thrown himself into a chair at the table next to Davy.   
"Ha!" Rick began in response. "Well you'll be surprised to know that you're wrong! You couldn't possibly be more wrong! Isn't that right guys?" he looked to the others who were, by now, staring at him. He paused, but when it was obvious no one was going to leap to his aid, he carried on. "I certainly don't see anybody laughing here. Is anyone laughing? NO!"   
"What's your point?!" bellowed Vyvyan.   
Rick opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was, "Uh . . ." He scratched his head. "Uh, yes, my point . . ."   
When it was clear that Rick's point was not forthcoming which was probably a blessing, Mike, Mike, Micky, Peter and Billy turned back to negotiations.   
"Yes!" Billy suddenly said startling the others. "I'll give you the note," he declared and promptly produced a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.   
"That was easy!" Peter said smiling now that SPG was gone.   
Mike took the proffered note with caution as though he expected a clinically insane, blood thirsty hamster to leap from it. Stranger things have happened. In his Texan drawl he read out loud the hastily scribbled message. " 'Dear Fascist Bully Boy, Give me some more money, you bastard. May the seed of your loins . . .' " was all he got out before Billy snatched the note back.   
"Sorry," he said. "That's the note to me bank manager. Ah! Here it is!" he said after a thorough search. He held an envelope triumphantly for all to see, grinning proudly.   
"Are you gonna give it to us?" the shorter Mike finally asked when Billy showed no sign of relinquishing the note.   
"I'm hungry," was his reply.   
Mike sighed. "The fridge is over there."   
Billy headed for the insanely decorated appliance. "Hello there little fridge. How are you?" He paused before opening the door and leaned in conspiratorially. "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?" he asked before opening the door suggestively. He thrust in his hands and began rummaging through the "food" items.   
"You'd better watch out, mate," Davy said, grinning at Micky. "He's chatting up your bird."   
Micky shot him a confused look. Only Peter giggled at the joke. Davy smiled at the confused faces, trying very hard not the laugh. He grinned impishly at Vyvyan who merely sneered and backhanded him in the face. Davy's chair fell over taking Davy with it, and both he and the chair landed squarely on Neil's back.   
"I'm really beginning to see what you mean," he said to Neil as he climbed off the man's back. "Sorry man."   
"That's okay," Neil said with a grimace. "Everyone picks on me anyway because they all hate me even though I'm the only one who ever does anything, ever." He gestured to the blood stains on the floor he'd been trying to get up. "I don't know why I bother sometimes . . ."   
"I don't know why you bother at all," Vyvyan said.   
Neil continued undeterred, ". . . I may as well just kill myself and get it over with since nobody cares. None of you are even listening to me anyway. I should probably just . . ."   
"Shut up, Neil!" Vyvyan yelled standing up to face the long haired weirdo.   
Rick who had been strangely silent since his last remark jumped into action. "My _point_ is that I'm right and you're wrong. So there!" he proclaimed pointing an accusatory finger at Vyvyan. His smug look of victory was soon wiped from his face when he discovered a hand on his head. The hand, of course, belonged to Vyvyan who with his other hand grabbed the most convenient thing he could find, namely Neil's head, and smashed the two together. With a dull thud, both men fell slowly to the floor.   
Vyvyan resumed his seat at the table next to Davy. "You just can't get any peace in this house," he said to Davy with a weary sigh.   
"Oh great," said Neil from the floor. "More blood for me to clean up."   
Billy emerged from the fridge victorious. He quickly withdrew his hands revealing a half-drunken bottle of Coca-Cola in one and, in the other, something that looked like it was a sandwich at some point in time. He closed the door, a satisfied look on his face. "Was it good for you, too?" he asked, winking at the fridge.   
He made his way to the table, took a seat next to Davy and began with the soda.   
"The note, Billy," the shorter Mike said irritably.   
"No," said Billy pointing to his plate, "It's a sandwich."   
"Would you just give us the note!?" shouted the shorter Mike's counterpart. He received his answer shortly when something that looked like it had been a sandwich at some point, hit him square in the jaw.   
"Would you give us the goddamn note!?" shouted Vyvyan.   
"Well if you're gonna get all sniffy about it," he said and threw an envelope down on the table. Vyvyan grabbed it and studied it carefully while Billy made his way to the centre of the room. "I never wanted to do this anyway," he said in a serious manner to no one in particular. "I always wanted to be . . . a lumberjack." He pulled of his dirty overcoat to reveal a plaid shirt complete with braces. He pulled a furry cap from his pocket and placed it on his head. "Leaping from tree to tree as they float down the mighty rivers of British Columbia."   
"Oh shut up!" said Rick who had since picked himself up off the floor.   
"The redwood, the larch, the mighty Scotch pine . . ."   
"If you don't shut up," said Vyvyan said menacingly, "I'll have SPG rip off your testicles with his teeth."   
"Like hell I will!" came a Scottish voice from outside a broken window.   
"What about my comedic monologue?" asked Billy edging toward the exit.   
"Get out, ya fairy!" shouted Vyvyan dropping the letter and picking up the bike.   
"I'm not sleeping with that writer again."   
"Get out you stupid bastard!" Rick shouted as Vyvyan hurled the bike at Billy.   
Both the bike and the now unconscious Billy Balowski landed outside safely out of sight.   
The envelope lay on the table. For moment everyone stared at it as though their fate were sealed within. Then again, it was. Davy who was the closest as he was still seated at the table motioned to it. "Shouldn't we open it?" he asked tentatively.   
"You're the closest, Dave," Micky told him.   
"Right," he said. He gingerly picked up the plain white envelope with two hands holding it at least a foot from his face. He licked his lips and positioned his hand to tear it opened. Several seconds passed, but Davy didn't move, his fingers stilled poised on the brink of action. "I can't do it," he said finally passing it to Peter.   
Peter took the envelope and stared at it fearfully as if it contained the plague.   
"This is ridiculous," Rick said, "just open the bloody thing."   
"Why don't you?" Peter said holding the letter out to Rick.   
"Uh, I would . . ." Rick began taking a step backwards, "but, uh . . . I don't have my spectacles on."   
"Rick you don't wear spectacles," Mike said in his cool British accent.   
"Yes I do," Rick countered indignantly. "They're . . . they're invisible, so you can't see them!"   
Mike shook his head and sighed. "Vyvyan."   
Vyvyan walked over to Rick and belted him across the face.   
"No Vyvyan," Mike corrected, "the letter! Open the letter."   
"Oh!" Vyvyan walked over to the frightened Peter and roughly grabbed the note. "Give it here ya pansy," he said and opened it up with ease. He looked at it for a moment. "It was a good shot though, wasn't it Mike?"   
"Oh very good, Vyvyan!" Rick said sarcastically still holding his aching head.   
"Terrific, Vyv, now what does it say?" Mike answered.   
Vyvyan still grinning at Rick's discomfort looked at the note. His smile turned quickly to a frown of concentration. "D . . . Dee . . . Dee-a . . ." he began.   
"Very good Vyv," said Mike coming round to his side. "Now what's that letter there?"   
"Uh . . . an R?"   
"Good, so what's the first word?"   
"Uh . . . Dee-arr . . . dear!" Vyvyan shouted.   
"Good! Now the next," Mike prompted.   
"Dear B . . . B . . . oo-oy . . . s . . ."   
"Oh give me that!" Rick yelled and grabbed the note.   
"Dear _Boys_," he read.   
"Hey!" Peter stopped him. "I thought you said you needed glasses!"   
"Spectacles," corrected Davy.   
"Invisible spectacles," added Micky.   
A look of concern crossed Rick's face. "Well," he began tentatively but with growing confidence. "They're invisible, right? So how do you know I'm not wearing them now!?" he answered. He gave an exasperated sigh and turned his attention back to the note.   
"Dear Boys," he began again as Neil and Vyvyan came up behind him. "G . . . G . . . oh . . ."   
"That's an E, Rick," said Neil from over his shoulder.   
"Yes, yes! Shut up, I can see that! G . . . ee . . . it."   
"Git!" shouted Vyvyan.   
"Doesn't 'git' have, like, an I in it?" Neil asked.   
"Does it?"   
"I think so," said Rick.   
"Oh yeah," Vyvyan mumbled.   
"Gee . . ." Rick pronounced. Neil and Vyvyan helped him out by making various "Guh," "ee," and "tee" noises. Finally, Mike could take no more. The tall Texan pounded over and grabbed the note from them.   
"You guys are pathetic!" he said. "Can't you even read?"   
"What'd you expect? We're college students," said Neil.   
"Yeah," Rick agreed, "I suppose _you_ could do better."   
Mike shot him an annoyed look. "Peter could do better."   
At the mention of his name, Peter brightened. "Thanks man."   
Mike should his head and forced a smile. "No problem, buddy." He then turned back to the paper in his hands and read it. It said: Dear Boys,   
  
Get Stuffed!   
  
Your loving (co) landlords,   
Mr. Babbit & Mr. Balowski "Get stuffed?" Micky asked. "What does that mean?"   
"It means we're buggered," Mike answered.   
"Right up the bottom," Vyvyan added.   
Rick sighed, "And we all know what that's like."   
There was a brief silence while everyone digested the news. No one moved or said a word for some time. Finally a voice emerged from the quiet.   
"What do we do now?" asked Peter.   
Strangely, the reply came from outside. "I told you!" it said. "You should have taken the taxi!"   
"Will you fuck off!" Vyvyan hollered, his face turning red with effort. He picked up a chair and was about to give chase when he felt a hand on his shoulder restraining him.   
"Look man," Mike Nesmith said, "if you keep doing that we're not gonna have any chairs left."   
Vyvyan looked at him and smiled. "You're right," he said and smashed the chair over Mike's head.   
"Now that," Davy began, "I did not see coming."   
"Well, I think that's enough for today," said the other Mike, the one still standing. "House meeting adjourned," he finished and causally made his way to the living room. 


	4. A Room of My Own

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part Four: A Room Of My Own**

Night was coming . . .   
"Ya know, Mike," Rick said with a snort, "you could do a _really_ dirty joke about the night cuming."   
"Shut up, Rick," Mike replied. Both turned back to the television.   
Night was _falling_ quickly on the crowded beach house. The evening had been spent in relative silence. Relative to say a horde of starving dinosaurs fighting for the last elk in the herd while being attacked by the US air force amidst the Big Bang, it had been very quiet. The evening began with the usual screaming, moaning and swearing, but the fun didn't begin until Mike turned the TV off. Aside from the hollering, the fighting, the screaming, the ranting, the smashing, the yelling, the swearing and the occasional explosion, it was a tranquil evening. Thankfully, "tranquility" was put to rest when the telly came back on. The ill-tempered eight sat huddled around the set as though its light were their lifeline, for without it they would have to talk to each other. Talking, however, inevitably led to hollering, fighting, screaming, ranting, smashing, yelling, swearing and the occasional explosion. At the moment, the only sound came from the television.   
". . . ha, ha, ha. Thanks Bill," said the woman on the screen. "If you have enjoyed this terrific programing, please call and make a pledge, because without your support we here at W.A.N.K. can't continue to bring you quality programming like this. Any pledge you could make would of course be appreciated, but at the higher levels we offer these special gifts. At the $500 level you'll receive this great one of a kind key chain with our station's logo 'I'm A W.A.N.K.er!' on it, and for a pledge of only $3500 you'll receive a video of tonight's outstanding presentation 'Dwane Dibbley Sings For Loose Change'. Now I'm just going to turn you over to the head of W.A.N.K., my boss O.W.A. Giveaway and . . ."   
It was then that the voice ceased. No one could say exactly why, but the consensus seemed to be that it was because Vyvyan had put his foot through the screen several times.   
"Hey man, why'd you do that?" asked Mike angrily. His voice lacked it's usual confidence probably due to his previous encounter with a chair.   
"I had to shut that bitch up!" Vyvyan answered.   
"Yeah, what's it to you? Ya fascist!" Rick added, standing. "God, public television. All they ever do is beg you for money which they just use to put out crap and British comedy and let's face it, one doesn't have far to go to become the other. Well," he addressed remnants of the TV, "you're not getting my hard earned bread for your fascist regime! That's why I'm an anarchist," he concluded.   
"The only time you ever have any bread, Rick, is when you steal it from me," said Neil.   
"That is simply not true!"   
"Yes it is," Vyvyan interjected. "Just the other day you said to me 'Look how much money I nicked from under Neil's bed!'"   
"Yes and what happened then?" Rick asked.   
"I said, 'Is that all you got?' and you said, 'yes'."   
"And then?" Rick prompted.   
Vyvyan smiled. "I took it from you!"   
"Exactly, so . . ." Rick began.   
"Be that as it may," continued Mike, "that was our television."   
"It's still your television. It's just in a few more pieces now that it was," said the other Mike.   
"Couldn't he have just turned it off?" Micky asked.   
"I did!" answered Vyvyan.   
"No you didn't," Micky told him, "you put your foot through it."   
"Several times. I saw it all," added Davy.   
"Well it's off isn't it!?" shouted Vyvyan.   
"You quibble over terms," Mike said, "I'm going to bed. By the way," he added pausing, "where are our rooms? I'd better get mine ready for all the beautiful women who want to ride the Mike-express, and I don't mean the last train to Clarksville."   
Davy, Mike, Peter and Micky exchanged glances. None of them wanted to tell the others the bad news or imagine what havoc it could wreak. After a fierce staring contest, a decision was made. "Peter," said the other three decisively.   
"Me?" Peter asked in near horror.   
"'Fraid so, man" said Micky.   
"You can do it, good buddy," added Mike.   
"Yeah, we're all behind you," Davy said taking a few steps back.   
"What is it?" Neil questioned.   
"Well," Peter began, "It's like this . . . uh . . . ya see . . ."   
"Just spit it out, will you?" Rick said impatiently.   
Peter took a deep breath. "We've only got two rooms," he said and took up a stance as though he expected something to fly across the room and hit him. Luckily, nothing did.   
"Heavy," said Neil.   
"Wait just a minute. Do you men to tell me there's only two rooms for the four of us?" Mike asked incredulously.   
Before Peter could reply Vyvyan suddenly shouted, "Oh no! Bags not Rick!"   
"Bags not Vyv!" Rick shouted in return.   
"Bags not . . . Neil," Neil said, somewhat confused.   
"No, no, no! You misunderstand," Mike interjected.   
"I thought so," replied his shorter counterpart with more than a little relief in his voice.   
"There's only two rooms for the eight of us," Mike explained.   
"Oh no!" shouted Neil. "Hea-Vy! This is like sixteen-ton-weight heavy! What are we gonna do Mike?"   
"Relax Neil, Mike TheCoolPerson will think of something." Following this statement there was a brief pause. This was followed by a long pause which was in turn followed by a bloody great pause. Before another could creep it's way into the conversation, Rick spoke up.   
"Well, Mike? What _are_ we going to do?" he asked looking as though he wanted to cry.   
"Wait Rick, I'm thinking."   
"If we wait for that we could be standing here all night," Davy said, smirking.   
"Look, it's very simple," Mike addressed Mike. "We four can share one room and you four take the other."   
"The four of us share a room? What, are are we living in the third world?" Rick asked. "Is this the deepest rain forest in Africa, never touched by civilized man?"   
"What choice do we have?" Micky asked him.   
"I am not sharing a room with them," Vyvyan stated pointing to Neil and Rick.   
"Yeah! It would be sort of, poofy," added Rick squirming uncomfortably.   
"For now you're going to have to," Mike told him taking control of the situation, "at least until we can think of something better. Now, there are four beds in the room upstairs and two in the downstairs bedroom plus a fold out couch that can fit two."   
"Why do you have four beds upstairs?" Neil asked suspiciously.   
"Well . . ." Mike stuttered, "uh . . . because . . ." He glanced at his three compatriots quizzically. They looked back in a similar state of confusion. When he saw the other three were just as stumped as he, he shrugged and replied, "I don't know."   
Rick's look now turned to suspicion as well. "You don't know?"   
Mike looked to his friends for support.   
"Well," Micky began slowly, "no."   
"Okay," the shorter Mike said rousing everyone from his private contemplation, "now that that's settled, we'll bid you good night. Come on guys, we're upstairs."   
Mike was about to protest but thought better of it. It would only create yet another scene. Instead, he watched as Rick, Neil, Mike and Vyvyan trudged off up the stairs. He sighed heavily with relief as Vyvyan slammed the door shut behind him. The others relaxed, too. Without a word, the four remaining men entered the downstairs bedroom. Micky, the last one in, locked the door behind him, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. For a long time, they sat in numb silence while their brains made an attempt to digest the events of the day.   
Micky was the first to breach the peace. "Well that was fun," he said slumping down on the sofa.   
"What a day," Davy agreed. "I hope that was only because they were getting settled."   
"I have a feeling they were only getting started," Micky told him plainly.   
Davy grinned slightly. "I don't know if I can take another day like that."   
"What are we gonna do, Mike?" Peter asked trying desperately to hold back the tears.   
"We're gonna go to sleep," Mike replied.   
"But what about them?" asked Peter.   
"Hopefully they'll go to sleep, too," Micky said, a slight grin now appearing on his face.   
Mike paused mulling over Peter's question in his mind. Micky and Davy also appeared to be deep in thought. "I don't know," Mike finally said causing Peter's hopeful look to dissolve.   
"We can't keep this up, that's for sure," Davy stated. "Those guys are crackers . . . crazy!"   
"Yeah," Micky added, "the place looks like a hurricane hit it."   
"True, but for once that hurricane wasn't named Micky Dolenz," Davy said.   
Micky's grin broadened a little.   
"Come on guys," Mike said unfolding the couch, "we'll sleep on it. I'm sure things will look better in the morning."   
"I hope so. What I need now is some peace and quiet," Davy added heading for an empty bed.   
Before he reached it, however, an ear piercingly violent scream erupted from above their heads. The sound was followed shortly by a dull thud, a few seconds of silence, and the sound of shouting and banging coming from the stairs as though someone had just fallen down them.   
"You had to say that, didn't you?" Micky asked Davy, and the fearful four made quickly though reluctantly for the door.   
  
Meanwhile, Rick, Vyvyan, Mike and Neil were considering their surroundings.   
"Before you say anything, Neil, shut up!" Rick said not even looking at the hippie. He headed for the nearest bed and sat down dejectedly.   
"I wasn't going to say . . ." began Neil. "Oh I see, it's time to hassle me. I suppose that'll make you feel better."   
"Will it?" Vyvyan chimed in. "Okay then. Neil you are a snivelling little rat-faced git! A smelly flare-wearing hippie!"   
"Flare's are coming back!" Neil defended.   
"Feel better Vyv?" Mike queried.   
"Yes actually, Michael," he said flopping himself on the last remaining bed.   
"It's not so bad, guys," Neil said trying to lighten the oppressive mood in the room. "Sort of like camping."   
"Oh?" Rick said trying to suppress a grin, "I suppose you'd know a lot about _camping_, wouldn't you Neil?"   
"Well yes actually, when I was younger . . ." Neil stopped suddenly, a horrified look crossing his face. "I mean, No! Never!" he amended realizing what Rick had meant.   
Rick was about to comment further when Vyvyan interrupted. "What the bloody hell is this?" he asked. Above his bed hung two rings like the kind you see on monkey bars or in the Olympics.   
"I don't want to alarm you, Vyv, but there is a very good chance that that bed was the centre of a menage-a-quatre," Mike told him.   
"Cat?" Neil asked. "I though they were monkeys."   
"What's that?" Vyvyan asked Mike ignoring Neil. Mike whispered something into his ear eliciting an ear piercingly violent scream from Vyvyan. He leapt off the bed and stared at in in disgust before charging away. He then grabbed Rick, hurled him to the floor and placed himself gingerly in the now vacant bed.   
Rick landed with a thud and immediately stood up shouting, "You bastard! I'm not sleeping where some horrid monkeys' bottoms have," he paused searching for the right words, "been doing . . . things together!"   
"Very well," said Vyvyan obligingly. He then got up, dragged Rick to the door and proceed the hurl him down the stairs. After a lot of yelling and banging on the way down, Rick landed in a disorganized heap at the bottom.   
After much moaning and complaining, he stood up and addressed the now empty stairway. "How dare you, Vyvyan!" he yelled. "You bastard! You stupid pratt! Someone with a girl's name anyway!"   
In response, the upstairs door opened about three inches and a hand appeared. The hand gave Rick the two-finger salute and promptly disappeared once more as the door was slammed shut.   
Rick was just about to hurl a string of obscenities at the closed door when he suddenly noticed he had an audience. The four Monkees stood staring in disbelief from the downstairs bedroom's doorway.   
"Are you okay?" Peter asked.   
Rick put on a false smile. "Of course I'm all right," he said. "Ya know, we're just kooky in this house. Why, the other day we were playing monopoly, and -- it was in the middle of the game -- and we just stopped for no reason at all." He put his hands up questioningly. "We're all just mad around here. I bet, uh, just now, it looked like, uh . . ."   
"Like Vyvyan threw you down the stairs?" Micky filled in.   
"Yes, a bit like that," he replied his smile fading.   
"Just a bit," Davy said grinning.   
"Yes," he replied his eyes drifting upward. It was quite obvious that he didn't want to go back up to the room.   
Mike sensed his hesitation. "If you don't want to go back up there you can sleep over there," he said pointing to the hammock.   
Rick started for the hammock, but stopped halfway saying, "It's not because I'm afraid you understand."   
"Of course not," said Mike, Peter, Davy and Micky in unison.   
"Who would want to sleep with three other men anyway," he said and then he remembered the rings over the bed. His expression turned to suspicion. He edged backwards toward the hammock as though he expected a gang bang the moment he turned away from the others.   
His fears were interrupted, though, when the bedroom door opened again admitting Vyvyan. He dragged a struggling Neil behind him. "Come on Vyv, put me down," Neil was saying.   
"Okay Neil," Vyvyan said and threw him down the stairs.   
"Oh ha, ha, Vyvyan. I certainly didn't see that coming a mile away!" Rick yelled sarcastically.   
"Shut up, virgin!" Vyvyan shouted back.   
"I am not a virgin!" Rick replied, a horrified expression on his face.   
"Virgin, virgin," Vyvyan chanted from the balcony, grinning.   
"Oh! Well! That's rich coming from someone who's only sexual experience came from putting a hamster down his trousers!" Rick replied haughtily with his hands on his hips.   
In response, Vyvyan simply gave him the V sign and stood there grinning as Mike appeared.   
Neil, who was still lying in a heap on the floor, began to stir. "I don't get it, all I said was 'good night'," he said sitting up.   
"It's not what you said Neil, but how you said it," Mike replied from the balcony.   
Neil thought about that for a moment. "Oh," he paused. "How did I say it?"   
"Just like that," Mike replied and then began laughing to himself. "_It_," he giggled to an uncomprehending Vyvyan.   
Downstairs, Mike Nesmith was more than a little fed up with the proceedings. "Can we please just go to bed?" he demanded once Mike had finished chuckling.   
"I don't care what you do as long as you keep it down," replied Mike. "Some of us are trying to sleep." Having said this, he and Vyvyan headed back to the room but stopped just before entering. "I don't suppose I could convince you to throw yourself down the stairs, could I, Vyv?"   
Vyvyan seemed to considered this but finally shook his head and replied, "Oh no, you're not going to get me with that one again."   
Mike shrugged and the two men closed the door behind them.   
On the ground floor, Neil crawled over to the sofa while Rick tried in vain to climb into the hammock. His first attempt landed him on the floor as did his second and third. He was about to have another go when he realized his audience was still there. The four in the doorway were staring at him, obviously trying very had not to laugh out loud.   
"What are you looking at?!" he hollered as they burst out with uncontrollable laughter. "Well you can bloody well stop . . ." he began when then a thought struck. "Of course. I'm obviously the most sexy," he mumbled to himself the horrified look returning. "Okay!" he yelled to the laughing figures, "I know what you're thinking, you perverts, and you can just stop now! Don't think we don't know what you get up to up there." He pointed a finger in the direction of the upstairs bedroom.   
"Yeah!" added Neil from the sofa.   
"Yeah . . . shut up, Neil!"   
"But I'm on your side, Rick."   
Rick sighed and shook his head. "Yes, well I don't want you on my side. I want you as far away from me as you can get!" He addressed the now confused Monkees. "I know I'm young, attractive, sexy, but I don't swing that way! I'm strictly butter side up, so you can take your roving eyes and plant them on some other man's bottom!" With some effort he finally managed to situate himself in the hammock.   
Mike shook his head and led his confused friends into the bedroom. It _had_ been a very long day.   
"Good night, Rick," Neil said.   
"Oh shut up, Neil," replied Rick. He then rolled over and consequently fell out of the hammock. "Damn!" he yelled as he landed unceremoniously on the floor. 


	5. The Morning After

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part Five: The Morning After**   
. 

The Fascist Pig

By Rick the People's Poet

.

'Twas an hour before sunlight and throughout the flat,

not a creature was stirring save one red-haired pratt.

.

The Monkees and Young Ones were now all asleep,

while down the curved stairway one Basterd did creep.

.

He snuck past the hippie and Rick on the floor

and headed for where there once was a door.

.

Now, outside he spied a friend in a tree.

He knew right away it must be SPG.

.

He grabbed the poor hamster from its improvised bed,

and then with a hammer beat it over the head.

.

"You bastard!" it yelled in it's rough Scottish lilt,

"If we were home I'd strangle you with my kilt."

.

The hamster ran in while Vyv grinned with elation

and headed toward his new destination.

.

His car stood before him, a shaft of light in the dark.

Without dent, without scratch, not one visible mark.

.

To his trunk now, he crept like a fox

and opened it to find a large cardboard box.

.

With the box in his arms he went back inside.

Atop the kitchen table, he let it reside.

.

The box on the table, he paused in mid creep

and listened to make sure the house was asleep.

.

His fears put to rest, he opened the lid

and peered at its contents grinning like a kid.

.

He reached in his hand, and took out a --

.

"What are you writing?" Peter asked.   
Startled, Rick looked up from his notebook, his pencil falling from his hand. "What?"   
"What are you writing?" Peter repeated giving him a friendly smile. He sat down at the table.   
A boastful look entered Rick's countenance. "Oh nothing very much really. Just a poem!" His smile was full of arrogant pride.   
"Oh! You're a poet?"   
"That's right! Pretty strange, eh?"   
"Wow," replied Peter, "that's pretty groovy."   
Rick looked at him, clearly perplexed. "You must think I'm pretty weird, right?"   
"No."   
"You don't? Well why not?!" he shouted.   
Peter's brow creased in confusion. He was silent for a moment. "I don't know," he said finally.   
"What do you mean you don't know? This is pretty heavy stuff. Just wait until the kids get into it. Then it'll be all over for Thatcher and her fascist junta!"   
When Peter's confused look deepened, Rick proffered his notebook entreating Peter to read. Peter took the book and scanned the page thoughtfully. "'The Fascist Pig'?" he asked. " 'Twas an hour . . .' "   
Rick suddenly grabbed the book from him before he could continue. He flipped the page so viciously that he very nearly tore it out. "A bad example," he muttered handing the small book back to Peter. Peter read the page silently smiling to himself.   
As he read, a door opened downstairs and Micky entered the kitchen where the two men sat.   
"Morning Pete, morning Rick," he said amiably. "Whatcha reading?"   
"Oh nothing," replied the Rick, a self-satisfied grin on his face. "Just something I wrote that'll crush the fascist government."   
Micky gave him a surprised look and peered over Peter's shoulder. Micky's look of surprise turned in to a wry grin as he read the title aloud. " 'The Fluffy Bunny Playground'? That's gonna crush the fascist government?"   
Horrified, Rick grabbed the notebook from Peter and stared accusingly at the page. Micky laughed and went to the cabinet for some cereal as the "People's Poet" looked desperately around for a scapegoat. Rick's eyes fell to Peter, "Uh . . ." he faltered. "I didn't write that! Someone must have put it in there. I certainly wouldn't write something about bunnies," he added unconvincingly.   
"I liked it," Peter told him sensing Rick's obvious deception.   
Rick rolled his eyes. "You would."   
The three men fell silent as the upstairs door swung open, and Mike made his grand entrance. "Enter Mike TheCoolPerson," said Mike stepping on the balcony, "followed by sidekick Vyvyan." Vyvyan stepped up beside him. "Mike looking good as always, descends the stairs. 'Morning guys' he says casually."   
"Good morning," greeted Micky, Peter, and Rick.   
"Mike strides to the table, Vyvyan in tow . . ." He stopped in mid narration. "Where's breakfast?" he asked returning suddenly to first person.   
"Neil's not up yet," Rick told him almost forlornly.   
"Oh," said Mike. He took a seat at the table.   
Vyvyan moved to hover over Rick from behind. "Sleep well?" he sneered.   
"Yes! Very well thank you Vyvyan!"   
Vyvyan was about the push the subject further when he noticed the book clutched in Rick's hand. "Oh God! You're not making them read that poncy crap, are you?"   
"It is not crap! And it's _certainly_ not poncy!" Rick countered. "Edgar Alan Poe. Was he a ponce? No! He may have dated a cousin or two, but he certainly wasn't poncy! What about Shelly or Wordsworth or Tennyson or Keats, did they camp it up every night? Were they even the least bit poofy?"   
"With names like that they'd better be," Vyvyan said and then turned his attention to Peter. "Did he read you the one about the bunnies?"   
"You've been going through my things again haven't you?!" Rick accused.   
"Yes."   
"Well . . ." Rick faltered not having expected an answer to the affirmative. Then, an idea struck. "Going through my poetry, eh? I suppose you fancy it!" Just then, something else struck him, only this time it was Vyvyan's fist. He reeled backwards clutching his chin in pain and bumped awkwardly into Davy and Mike who were making a belated entrance. The unexpected collision caused the three to fall into an unruly pile on the floor.   
"Enough," Mike said firmly as the other three struggled in vain. "Vyvyan, go and wake Neil. I want my breakfast."   
Vyvyan looked past the pileup to where Neil slept peacefully on the sofa. "No way, Michael. I'm not touching him," he said placing himself in Rick's seat.   
"You bastard!" shouted Rick as he finally succeeded in extricating himself from the others.   
"So?" Vyvyan responded casually.   
"You wouldn't know good poetry if someone crammed it up your bottom!"   
"Oh yeah? It just so happens that I have written a poem."   
"You?" Rick asked in disbelief. "Now that I'd very much like to see." He stepped over the angry forms of Mike and Davy on his way to the table. Mike and Davy both came to the conclusion that it would be safer to remain seated on the floor lest a brawl break out.   
"Alrighty matey," he said and began rummaging through his pockets. Everyone looked on as he pulled from his jacket pockets a knife, and unrolled condom, a dead rat with the head missing, two marbles, a tissue with a strange brown substance on it, a handful of gravel, a biro and another unrolled condom (obviously unused) before finally producing a crumbled piece of paper.   
Rick immediately snatched it from Vyvyan's hands. He read a bit and smirked. " 'Crazy Psycho Sex-Machine'?"   
"Yeah!" Vyvyan said smiling.   
Rick shook his head and threw the paper to the table as though its very thought disgusted him.   
Peter took up the sheet and studied it. As he read, his facial expression changed from astonishment to horror to shock before he finally put the poem down.   
"Well?" Vyvyan prodded.   
Peter thought for a moment before asking him, "What does 'fuck her blue' mean?"   
"Well . . ." Vyvyan began as Rick grabbed the paper and began to read it fervently. Vyvyan was about to elaborate further when Mike cut in.   
"Enough!" he said firmly. "Now I'm hungry and I want my breakfast." When no one responded he added, "Now."   
"It just never ends," the other Mike mumbled as he and Davy dutifully picked themselves up off the floor.   
"This is filth!" Rick said, his eyes still moving diligently over Vyvyan's prose.   
Vyvyan grinned proudly. "I know."   
"It's absolutely disgusting!" he exclaimed trying to place the paper surreptitiously in his pocket.   
"The part with the sheep wasn't so bad," Peter offered.   
"Yes about that," Rick addressed the author. "How do you finger fu--"   
"Rick!" Mike shouted casually from his seat at the table.   
"Yes?"   
"Go and wake Neil. It's time he made breakfast."   
Rick made a show of sighing deeply in annoyance but acquiesced to Mike's demand. He trudged unhappily over to the sofa where the hippie slumbered obliviously.   
"You know," said Micky as he swallowed a mouthful of food, "there's cereal right here." As if to further the point, Davy poured some into a bowl, added milk and began to eat.   
Mike appeared unconcerned. "Thanks," he replied, "I'll tell Neil when he gets up."   
Micky, Mike, Davy, and Peter shook their heads collectively and continued eating their breakfast. Vyvyan and Mike sat and waited for Rick to wake Neil.   
Rick stood above the sofa where Neil slept pondering what course of action to take. He tapped his foot for a moment in contemplation and finally decided on a plan. "Neil!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Neil, wake up! We're waiting on our breakfast!" The effect was negligible. In fact there was no effect at all. The prostrate from on the sofa remained still. Rick looked at it in frustration. "Neil!" he yelled again. His only response was blank stairs from the six in the kitchen. They continued to watch him. The heat was on now. He gazed down at the unmoving form and considered his next move.   
The man on the couch was completely covered with a large brown wool blanket. All that poked out of the covering was two shoed feet at one end and a small patch of hair at the other. There being no other way, he resigned himself to the inevitable. He took a deep breath and held it lest the odour from the man gag him and forced himself to take hold of the blanket. With all the might he could muster, he threw back the covering only to find Neil wasn't there. Relief surged though him briefly only to be replaced by confusion. In Neil's place lay a life-size wooden dummy with a stupid grin on its face. He took a step back to take in the scene. "What's this?" he asked.   
"It's Mr. Schneider!" said Davy as the six men moved to form a huddle around the sofa. "What's he doing here?"   
"Sleeping in Neil's bed by the look of it," Mike answered. "What is it?"   
"He's our advisor!" Peter answered jovially.   
"Your advisor? No wonder your still living in this shithole," Mike said.   
"Ere, wait a minute," Vyvyan said.   
"A whole minute?" Rick asked.   
"No I meant that figuratively."   
"Oh sorry."   
"Ere, wait a minute," Vyvyan repeated. "What's this?" he asked pulling on a string by the dummy's neck.   
In response, Mr. Schneider said "Your lack of knowledge and imagination will lead you to a premature end."   
"It's sounds like a fortune cookie," Rick said as the dummy added:   
". . . in bed."   
"Brilliant!" Vyvyan yelled pulling the chord again.   
"You are the most trumped-up farty little smeghead it has ever been my misfortune to encounter," it said in it's usual monotone.   
"Bastard!" Vyvyan shouted tearing the head from the dummy's neck and hurling it malevolently to the floor.   
"We never said he was a very good advisor," Micky said shrugging a little sheepishly.   
Peter ran to where the head had fallen near Neil's blanket and gingerly picked it up. As he cradled the discarded hulk, he noticed a piece of paper lying nearby. "Look," he said, "Mr. Schneider's left us a note!"   
"He's wrong you know," said Rick taking the letter. "It's from Neil."   
"What does it say?" the two Mike's said simultaneously.   
Rick stared intently at it for a moment.   
"Do you want me to have a go?" Davy asked him.   
Rick considered this. "Yes you'd better . . . uh . . ."   
"Did you lose your glasses again?" Peter asked.   
"Yes that's it!" Rick said in relief. "I've lost my spectacles. That's the trouble with invisible spectacles, you know, you can never ruddy find them when you need them."   
Davy read the note. It said:   
  
Okay lads, I've gone off to kill myself right because you all hate me so I'm going to like throw myself into the ocean and you'll never see me again. And oh shit my pen's running out of ink! Even my biro hates me! Why can't we all just live in an undeveloped utopia where everyone like gets on well and evil pens don't try to piss on you and bring you down. Damn damn damn. Sorry lads, just had to go find another pen. Not that any of you'd miss me. It probably took you forever just to find out I was gone. Anyway, I don't even know why I bother writing this at all since none of you care whether I live or die so good-bye. I hope you all have a really awful time without me. 

Peace and Love,   
Neil   
  
There was a pause while everyone digested this new information.   
"He's kidding right?" Micky asked. "I mean he's not serious, is he?" he added when no one answered.   
"Well that puts the rent up by one seventh," Rick said clapping his hands.   
Micky, Mike, Peter and Davy stared at him in shocked disbelief.   
"Wait a minute, man, are you serious?" Mike asked him. "He's really gone to kill himself?"   
Rick nodded.   
"And that's all you can say?" Mike continued, anger creeping into his voice.   
"Well what do you want me to say!? Oh no! Boo hoo! Neil's gone what ever will we do?!" Rick yelled back, equally angry.   
"Well shouldn't we do something?" Peter asked near tears.   
"Like what?" Rick replied haughtily.   
"I don't know. Go look for him?" Peter suggested tentatively.   
"Yeah!" Vyvyan jumped in. "I've never seen a corpse before."   
Rick looked a bit taken back. "What about that one bloke you found?"   
"Uh, no Rick, he wasn't dead," Vyvyan told him.   
"But you said . . ."   
"He wasn't dead!"   
"Are you sure?"   
"Yes."   
"Oh, no wonder he thrashed about so much when we tried to flush him down the loo."   
"Yes, and that's why he kept screaming we tried to throw him out the window!"   
Rick grinned. "I guess everything does look 20/20 in hindsight. Will wonders never cease?"   
"Right, so shall we go find Neil's bloated corpse?" Vyvyan asked excitedly.   
"Now wait a minute," Mike said, speaking up at last. "I'm not combing the beach looking for Neil's rotting carcass. At least not until I've had some breakfast." He looked pointedly at Peter.   
"What is wrong with you three?!" the other Mike shouted. "Your friend is probably dead and all you can think about is eating!? You guys are deranged!"   
"No we're just hungry!" said Vyvyan as he stomped back over to the kitchen table and hurled himself into a seat. Rick and Mike followed him.   
"There is something very wrong with them," Davy commented.   
"He wasn't our friend anyway," Rick told them upon hearing Davy's remark.   
"Yeah, more of an acquaintance," Mike said.   
"More like a smelly hippie we all hated," Vyvyan added. Rick and Mike nodded in agreement of Vyvyan's assessment.   
"We've got to do something. Shouldn't we phone the police?" Davy suggested.   
"Great! Bring the pigs round. That's just what we need," Rick said sarcastically.   
"We've got to do something," Peter said still clutching the wooden head like a baby holding a security blanket.   
"Well I'm going to look for him," the taller Mike stated.   
"Yeah, me too," chimed Davy.   
"I'll go," Peter added.   
"Micky?" Mike prodded.   
"Well I'm certainly not gonna hang around here with them."   
Vyvyan looked up. "I wouldn't bother if I were you."   
"Why not?" Mike asked, exasperated.   
"Because he's standing right there," he said pointing to the doorway.   
Six faces turned to follow Vyvyan's hand.   
Peter, Micky, Mike and Davy gasped collectively turning paler than a sheet. They looked as though they'd seen a ghost and in fact, for a brief moment, they thought they had, for just as Vyvyan predicted there stood a bedraggled looking Neil. His clothes and hair were soaking wet, and he was covered from head to toe with sand. Around his neck like a boa hung a long green piece of seaweed and peeking out from his collar was a fish's wriggling backside. All of this he ignored as he trudged unhappily past the stunned four and toward the kitchen where three calm figures sat at the table.   
He stopped in front of the table and to no one in particular complained, "Just my luck, low tide."   
"Neil, you're alive!" Peter shouted in delight dropping the severed head of their advisor. He looked as though he wanted to bear hug the dirty figure, but he restrained himself.   
Neil sighed laboriously. "Yeah."   
"Neil!" Rick shouted suddenly. "Where's our breakfast!?"   
"Well look I'm sorry Rick, but I was a little too busy dying to put any lentils on, okay?"   
"That's all fine and well, Neil," Mike joined in, "but while you were merrily trying to snuff it, three college students went hungry. Now what are you going to do about that?"   
Neil glared at the assembled group.   
"Look, we want our breakfast and we want it _right now_!" Vyvyan shouted.   
"Now?"   
"Now!" Rick, Mike and Vyvyan yelled.   
The remaining four looked on in sheer amazement as Neil, a man who had only minutes ago attempted to drown himself, scurried worriedly around the kitchen while the three others sat boredly watching him. Having had no time to prepare, Neil improvised. He grabbed a nearby plate, took the now deceased fish from out of his shirt, wrapped it in the seaweed and placed it in front of Vyvyan.   
"What is this?" Vyvyan asked.   
"Uh, it's sushi, Vyv."   
"Funny, it looks like a dead fish wrapped in seaweed."   
"Yeah, it's sushi."   
"Oh," said Vyvyan and began to devour it happily as Mike and Rick looked on in disgust.   
"That is disgusting!" Rick exclaimed.   
"Absolutely, so where's ours?" asked Mike expectantly.   
"Sorry guys, that's all there is."   
"Oh great! Well I guess we'll just have to have cereal," Rick said and proceeded to pour himself a bowl.   
"That's what I suggested in the first place!" Micky said as Mike took the box from Rick.   
"So what? I suppose you want an award?" asked Mike.   
"Yeah, an award for stating the bleeding obvious," added Rick.   
"Actually I do," Micky said in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.   
"Okay. Vyv?" Mike prodded.   
"Yeah?" said Vyvyan finishing the last of the "sushi."   
"Give it to him."   
"Righty-ho, Michael."   
"Oh no!" Micky said as Vyvyan approached. He picked up his drumsticks which were laying nearby for protection and began edging for the door.   
"Oh yes!" said Vyvyan giving chase.   
Micky ran out the doorway screaming followed closely by Vyvyan. Peter, Davy and Mike looked on impotently.   
"That guy is a psychopath!" Mike exclaimed, for once unsure of what to do.   
"Yeah!" Peter agreed. "He's crazy, too!"   
"You needn't worry. He won't kill him or anything," Neil said and then added, "well probably not."   
"That's very encouraging. Thank you Neil," Davy said sarcastically.   
  
They needn't have worried. Well not too much anyway. When Vyvyan and Micky showed up an hour later, both were very much alive. Although Micky seemed to be limping and strangely enough to be clutching his bottom, he seemed otherwise unharmed.   
During the pair's absence, Mike, Peter, and Davy had contented themselves on the bandstand. They hadn't actually played anything due to anxiousness but merely sat around worriedly fussing with their instruments.   
Mike, Neil and Rick meanwhile, in the absence of a working telly, sat around and idly listened to the group "tune" on the bandstand. Occasionally they would throw out the odd comment or piece of advice such as, "if you don't stop making that fucking noise I'm going to smash that guitar over your head," but other that a few such remarks very little was said between the two discordant groups. So it was a great relief when the two missing factors showed up more or less unscathed.   
Vyvyan was the first to enter. Everyone glanced up from what they were doing which at that very moment was absolutely nothing. He smiled contentedly at the questioning eyes and took a seat near his comrades. Rick, Mike and Neil accepted his presence without much fuss and went steadfastly back to ignoring each other and more importantly to ignoring the three men fiddling nervously with their instruments. Vyvyan, catching the mood, joined in the festivities and promptly said nothing. Instead, he allied himself with his friends in their task. Their task, for the time being, was to glare unhappily at the table as though it were the cause of their present trouble. Their present trouble was that they were excruciatingly bored, and they were being forced to listen to the racket coming from the stage.   
"Dum, dum, dum," sang Mike's guitar as though it were asking the question frozen on all their lips: "Where is Micky?" Mike, Peter and Davy looked expectantly from the door to Vyvyan. The latter was now engrossed in trying to drill a whole through the table with his eyes alone. Neither seemed prepared to answer the question. "Dum, dum, dum," asked the guitar again.   
"Ching, ching," came the answer from Davy's tambourine. Perhaps if anyone had spoken Tambourine they might have learned the answer to their question, and just maybe they wouldn't be sitting there nervously waiting to see if Micky would reappear. However, if any of them had in fact spoken tambourine, they would have discovered that it knew bugger all about Micky's whereabouts and was merely stating it's annoyance at being knocked about all the damn time. "Ching!" it complained again.   
"Boom, boom, boom, boom," Peter's base said in an attempt to supplicate the ailing tambourine.   
"Dum, dum, dum," the guitar asked again hoping this time for a more satisfactory answer. None came. Mike would have asked the question himself, albeit in English, had he not feared some form of retribution from Vyvyan. So the question remained unasked and the three Monkees contented themselves staring anxiously at the once doored doorway.   
Luckily, they hadn't long to wait, for only seconds after this instrumental conversation, Micky entered the pad, alive if not exactly well.   
"Micky!" Peter yelled throwing his bass aside. He jumped up and bear-hugged his limping friend.   
"Are you okay, man?" Mike asked running over to assist.   
"We were worried sick," Davy added. "What happened?"   
Micky hazarded a nervous glance at Vyvyan who merely put on his best menacing smile in return. "Oh, nothing really," he lied in his best casual tone.   
"But you're limping," Peter said.   
Micky tried to laugh. "Just a sprain. I'm sure it'll go away in no time." He put his free hand on Peter's shoulder for support, the other gripped a broken drumstick, and carefully balanced his weight on both feet. When it showed every sign of supporting him unaided, he released Peter. "See no problem." He tried unsuccessfully to grin.   
"Come and sit down," Mike said leading him to the sofa.   
At this point, Vyvyan gave up on the table and began to watch the proceedings intently. Rick, Mike and Neil who had taken no interest in the goings-on noticed Vyvyan's enthusiasm and turned to watch.   
As Micky, still clutching furiously to the drumstick, cautiously made for the couch, Peter, strange though this may seem, was struck with a thought. "Hey Mick," he began. "What happened to the other drumstick?"   
Vyvyan tensed.   
Micky paused, his bottom only inches from the cushion and seemed to think better of it. He straightened slowly back up his feet, his free hand moving to his bottom as though in pain.   
Vyvyan relaxed into a dejected frown.   
"I . . . uh . . . I must have dropped it," he answered staring resolutely at the floor. "I think I have to go to the bathroom," he added and half walked, half waddled out of the room.   
In the kitchen, Mike started laughing. "You gave it to him all right, Vyv," he said. Vyvyan joined him in laughing. Rick stared blankly at the two for several seconds before comprehension finally dawned. He gave a shocked look, but soon he too joined in the merriment. Neil remained drearily unaffected although it was clear he understood.   
Slowly, Davy and Mike got the joke, but neither thought it at all funny. Peter looked at their shocked expressions, but his face remained a mask of confusion.   
"I don't understand. What did you give him?" Peter asked.   
The question only served to illicit more giggles from those assembled in the kitchen.   
"Only what he deserved," Mike finally squeezed out between gasped breathes.   
"Yeah, maybe if you'd pull the stick out of your arse, you'd understand," Rick said before the laughter resumed with renewed vigour. Even Neil allowed himself a brief grin at Rick's joke.   
"You guys are sick, do you know that!?" Mike asked furiously. When he received no response he yelled, "Stop laughing!" He steamed impatiently and waited for the hilarity to die down.   
"You're one to talk," Mike said.   
"Just what do you mean by that?" the green-hatted Mike replied angrily.   
"Oh please!" Rick exclaimed picking up the thread. "Don't you get all high and mighty with us. What Vyvyan put in his bottom was no worse than what you shoved up there last night! That's right, we know what you get up to, you dirty little perverts!"   
"Yeah!" added Neil. "We know about the cats!"   
"What are you taking about?" Mike asked, more confused that angry.   
"He means menage-a-quatre," Rick explained.   
"Which means?" prodded Davy.   
The shorter Mike explained. "Two rings, four Monkees and a ramrod."   
"Now wait a minute," Mike began. He might have finished his thought if Micky hadn't chosen that moment to come out of the bathroom. All eyes were immediately drawn to his posterior. As he entered the room, his walk seemed appreciably less encumbered and certainly more natural. On his face was a look that can only be described as intense relief.   
"Feeling better?" asked Peter.   
"Much," replied Micky still declining to sit.   
Silence settled over the room. It mucked about for a while and did the sort of thing silences usually do. It inspected the place being generally oppressive and making rather a nuisance of itself before finally deciding this "wasn't it's scene." It felt this place was too dreary even for it and left immediately to find someplace "more cheerful" like say a morgue or a graveyard.   
Mike took a deep breath to calm himself. "Okay, this has got to stop."   
"What?" the other Mike asked.   
"This! All of this!" he shouted, exasperated. "The violence, the sexual innuendo! All of it!"   
"That's right," Davy agreed. "We're not gay. We're as straight as . . ."   
"A telephone chord?" Neil volunteered.   
"No!" Mike shouted. "This is just what I'm talking about!"   
Vyvyan who had been strangely silent, finally jumped in the conversation, "Would you all just shut up!" he bellowed.   
"No I won't," Mike continued throwing caution to the wind. "I can't take it anymore. You, all of you, are nothing but a bunch of . . ." he tried to come up with a suitably nasty phrase, but could think of nothing.   
"Randy Scouse gits," Micky whispered in his ear.   
". . . randy Scouse gits!" Mike hollered.   
"That is simply not true!" Rick shouted, furiously jumping up from his chair. "It's ridiculous! I've never even been to Liverpool."   
The argument would have gone on longer and probably would have caused quite a bit of damage, both bodily and property, if it hadn't been a for a knock on the door frame.   
"Hello?" called out a voice tentatively. A female voice. 


	6. The Visitor

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part Six: The Visitor**   
.   
Everyone's head turned. There in the doorway stood the owner of the voice half obscured by the door frame. She was a pretty girl around twenty, 5' 5" with shoulder length blond hair. A pair of glasses framed her striking blue eyes.   
The group of eight stared at her open-mouthed, making no attempt to hide their astonishment. The last thing any of them had expected was that a female visitor should enter their midst. She looked on nervously waiting for someone to answer her greeting. When no such reply came she decided to try again.   
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," she ventured.   
Silence.   
"I would have knocked, but the door was opened, or rather missing," she added.   
Silence again.   
"Maybe I'd better come back later," she said turning to leave. She was just about to head back from whence she came when a voice called out stopping her.   
"Leaving so soon, baby? The party's just starting."   
She turned back to find one of the eight men leaning causally in the doorway. How he'd gotten there so quickly she wasn't certain.   
"Why don't you come inside," Mike continued, for it was he who had spoken, "and I'll give you a tour of my bedroom."   
She gazed at him quizzically but followed him inside none-the-less. The others were no longer gaping , but they continued to stare unabated.   
"Who's that?" Rick asked.   
"That, Rick, is a girl. Get a good look, it may be your last chance to see one," Mike told him.   
Rick took a step closer as did Vyvyan. Both studied her intently, strange looks on both their faces. She held her breath under their gazes not quite sure what to do. After what seemed an eternity, Rick stepped back apparently satisfied, but Vyvyan remained staring. Finally after much scrutiny, particularly over her chest, Mike declared that that was enough and Vyvyan reluctantly backed off.   
"All right, baby, shall we?" Mike said taking her arm and attempting to lead her toward the stairs.   
"Wait a minute," she said shaking him off. "I'm not going anywhere with you."   
Mike was taken aback. "What's wrong? It's a fair trade. I give you a tour of my room, and you give me a tour of your knickers."   
"You must be joking," she replied edging further away from him.   
"Hey that's my line," Davy exclaimed.   
"What?"   
"Never mind. You'll have to excuse them. They've had a long night what with just escaping from the looney bin and all," Davy said with an impish grin. "I'm Davy," he told her and proceeded to introduce the others in the room. "And you are . . .?"   
"Melissa," she responded.   
"What a beautiful name," he replied his eyes twinkling brightly like stars.   
"Is something wrong with your eyes?" Melissa asked him.   
"Ignore him, he always gets like that," the taller Mike informed her with a friendly smile. "Is there something we can do for you?"   
She relaxed a little now that she was, more or less, among "sane persons."   
"Actually I just came over to introduce myself. I'm your new neighbour."   
"Brilliant!" shouted Vyvyan.   
"Yeah, right on!" Rick agreed a somewhat pervy look on his face.   
Melissa was disconcerted by the outburst but forced a smile regardless.   
"Welcome to the neighbourhood," Peter said warmly.   
She found her self smiling genuinely for the first time since she'd met these strange new men. "Thank you," she replied.   
The introductions having been made, the silence returned. It too wanted to find out who the new visitor was but seeing that no one would speak in its presence it eventually gave up deciding it was time to go on holiday. It briefly wondered if the Bahamas were nice this time of year before it was kicked out by . . .   
"Well," Melissa said at last. "Maybe I should go."   
"No!" everyone shouted in unison.   
"Stay please," Rick said obsequiously.   
Melissa glared at him, loathing showing on her face. "Really, I've got a lot of unpacking to do."   
"No stay, please," Peter pleaded fearing her departure would signal the end of their temporary truce.   
Something in his fearful eyes made her resolve falter. "Well. . . I _should_ go. . ." she stammered.   
"Yeah stay. We'll have lunch," Vyvyan suggested addressing her breasts.   
"Yeah, lunch!" Peter jumped in not sensing Vyvyan's innuendo.   
Micky finally decided to join in. "Don't worry about them. We'll keep the wolves at bay."   
"Okay, but just for a little while," she decided.   
"Great. Neil!" the shorter Mike called.   
"Yeah?"   
"Go make us some lunch."   
Neil shot him a sour look but trudged off soggily toward the kitchen. He was still clearly unhappy about his failure this morning.   
Melissa stared after him. "You friend is wet," she commented.   
"Yes, well, what he does behind closed doors is his business," Mike said sidling up to her again.   
"That's a funny story actually," Rick laughed snorting. "We got up this morning and found out he'd tried to kill himself."   
Everyone stared blankly at him except Vyvyan. "Yeah that was pretty funny," he grinned.   
"Wait, wait, I haven't finished yet. We almost had to make our own breakfast!" He paused putting his hands in the air questioningly. "Now that's what I call anarchy!"   
"He tried to kill himself?" Melissa asked horrified.   
"Well, yes," Rick said somewhat deflated by her reaction.   
"That's horrible!"   
"Exactly! He should have asked me," Vyvyan said nearing the girl. "I'd of killed him and _I_ wouldn't have fucked it up!"   
"Really," agreed Rick. "Low tide."   
As this exchange took place, Melissa found her self edging toward Mike, Peter, Micky and Davy and away from the others.   
"Here," Davy began, "why don't you sit down?" He gestured fro her to take a seat on the sofa.   
"Thank you," she said moving toward the couch.   
As she began lowering herself, Vyvyan tensed. "No, wait!" he shouted.   
Melissa turned to see what he was shouting about, but it was too late. As soon as she place her rear on the cushion, the couch proceeded to explode violently throwing her halfway across the room into the wall. She fell unconscious to the floor harshly banging her head on a nearby end table just in case she wasn't unconscious enough already. Micky, Mike, Peter and Davy immediately ran over to help her.   
"Oh great! The the sofa's exploded!" Rick yelled.   
"Good one, Vyv," Mike said, "but next time could you _not_ kill our only female guest?"   
Vyvyan seemed surprised. "Honestly!" he hollered, "anytime anything explodes around here it's always Vyvyan!"   
"That's because it's always your fault!" Rick accused.   
"No it isn't!" shouted Vyvyan.   
"Yes it is!"   
"No it's not!"   
"Look there's one way to settle this," Mike interjected. "Vyv, did you set those explosives?"   
"Yes," Vyvyan answered quietly looking down at his shuffling feet.   
"Where did they come from?" Mike continued.   
"The boot of my car."   
"Are there anymore?"   
"No."   
"Right that's settled. How is she?"   
"I don't think she's breathing, and we can't find a pulse," Micky answered fearfully.   
Everyone looked at Melissa's limp form. The explosion must have thrown her clear of the flames, which were now going out of their own accord, since she didn't have any noticeably bad burns. In fact if one didn't know better, they might think she was merely sleeping if it wasn't for the odd way she was lying and eerie stillness of her chest. There was some blood coming from a head wound, probably from where it hit the table, but it didn't _seem_ to be too bad.   
Rick stomped over. "Let me see," he said and bent to down putting his ear to her chest.   
"What was that bang?" Neil asked appearing from the kitchen.   
"Gang bang," replied Rick, Vyvyan and Mike at the same time.   
"What? Here in the sitting room?"   
"No _here_ in the sitting room," Mike said motioning to Melissa.   
"And you guys didn't invite me?"   
The taller Mike shook his head in frustration. "The couch just exploded with her on it."   
"Oh," replied Neil feeling somewhat let down. He headed back toward the kitchen.   
"Well? Can you find a pulse?" prompted Mike.   
"What?" Rick asked confused, his head still positioned above Melissa's chest. "Oh . . . uh, no. I think I'd better listen a bit longer."   
"Look Rick, much though I would like to be in your position this is no time for necrophilia!" Mike retorted.   
"I've just come to tell you I'm not making lunch," Neil said re-entering the living room, a frying pan in his hand.   
"Here let me have a go!" Vyvyan said pulling Rick up by his jacket collar.   
Neil left the room.   
"Not you too!" exclaimed Davy.   
"It's all right, I'm a doctor," he said kneeling over his patient.   
"You're a doctor?" Micky asked skeptically.   
"Yeah, a medical student," he answered. He placed his head on the girl's chest and listened intently. An entire minute passed and he didn't move. "Nope, she's dead," Vyvyan finally stated.   
"Are you sure?" Peter asked.   
"Yup, I didn't get thrown out of college for nothing!"   
"That's not fair!" Davy shouted. "It was my turn to get the girl!"   
"Dave, it's always your turn," Mike told him.   
"Oh my God! She's dead!" Rick shouted hysterically.   
Neil came back into the room. "Look guys I'm _really_ not going to make any lunch," he stated.   
"Fuck lunch!" Rick yelled jumping around anxiously.   
"I'd rather not if it's all the same, Rick," Neil responded.   
"What'll we do?"   
"Shouldn't we call a hospital or something?" Micky proposed near hysteria himself.   
"Right!" Rick said and began searching madly. "For Cliff's sake where is the bloody phone!?"   
Vyvyan, noticing Rick's distress and also noticing the phone nearby, grabbed it and thrust it into Rick's hands yanking the chord from the wall in the process.   
"Hello operator," Rick said putting the receiver to his ear and tapping the button. "No good, no dial tone," he said throwing the useless phone over his shoulder. The phone, unfortunately, landed directly on Melissa's forehead.   
"Hey! Watch it man!" Mike yelled at him.   
"Why? What's it gonna do? Kill her more?" Rick said fidgeting nervously again.   
"All right, I'll handle this. Now everyone one calm down," the shorter Mike stepped in. "This is no time to get hysterical," he added to Rick.   
"I am not getting hysterical!" Rick hollered hysterically.   
"Yes you are!" Vyvyan shouted at him.   
"I'm not!" retorted Rick, near tears.   
"You bloody well are!"   
"Well maybe I am, but this is serious! We could get arrested! I can't go to jail! I'm too pretty, I'd get raped!"   
It was a shame that nearly everyone was watching Rick and Vyvyan because it was at that moment that the "dead" girl began to move. Very slowly, almost tentatively, her eyes began to flutter and open. She tried to lift her head but couldn't. She briefly wondered who had turned the gravity up while she was out. Carefully, she brought her hand round to the back of her head where the blood was slowing to a stop and winced in pain. Deciding movement was definitely a bad idea, she closed her eyes and lie still. She instead focused her efforts on trying to figure out who she was, where she was, who was shouting, who was banging a bass drum in her skull and what her next move should be. She opted to continue doing nothing in the hopes that everything would work itself out of its own accord.   
Unfortunately, Davy was the only one to notice all this, well at least the visible bits. He was just about to mention it to the others when, as usual, things began to get ugly.   
"Jail?" Vyvyan continued in sudden alarm. "We could go to jail?"   
"Well I don't know," Rick began, agitated, "but last time I checked murder was against the law!"   
"But I never touched her!"   
Rick sighed in frustration. "No, but you set the explosives and that seemed to do the trick."   
"How do you know it was me!?"   
"You admitted it, you bastard!" Rick shouted. "Remember? We're all witnesses."   
Briefly, Vyvyan considered killing everyone in the room, but something told him that could make things much worse than they already were. Besides, there was always . . . no, not yet anyway.   
Vyvyan looked at the now still "corpse" his face registering something very close to fear. He paused for a moment examining her. "You bitch!" he bellowed and began kicking her furiously. "Wake up!" he shouted. Melissa writhed under the attack, but was still to zoned to understand what was happening. Vyvyan, not noticing her feeble protests, continued beating her mercilessly. Her struggles were soon put to rest, however, when Rick grabbed the frying pan Neil was holding and joined Vyvyan.   
"Wake up!" he cried and pounded her head furiously with the pan. "Get up!"   
As he and Vyvyan continued the mad beating, Micky, Davy, Peter and Mike paled simultaneously realizing, as evidenced by her protests, that she wasn't, as they had surmised, dead, at least not until now. The other Mike, as usual looked on with casual annoyance while Neil seemed more disturbed at the loss of his frying pan than anything else.   
After what seemed and eternity, Rick and Vyvyan, finally exhausted, stepped back to admire their work.   
"There!" said a satiated Rick, "That'll teach you to get blown up in our flat!"   
"Yeah!" Vyvyan agreed. "Bloody birds!"   
"You killed her!" Peter exclaimed.   
"Again!" Davy added in horror.   
"What are you talking about?" Rick asked in a very Rick-like manner.   
"Yeah, she was dead when we killed her!" said Vyvyan.   
"I think you'll find that the Manchester midget is correct," Mike told him causally.   
Rick stared at him dumbfounded, which was quite easy for him.   
"She was alive," Davy exclaimed. "I saw her move when you were fighting."   
"I'm still not making lunch," Neil repeated.   
"Why do you think she moved when you started kicking her?" Micky asked.   
"Why didn't you say so!?" Vyvyan hollered at Davy.   
Davy was floored. "Well . . ." he stammered, "there was . . . no time!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, music seeming to come from nowhere filled the room.   
. 

"_Hober reeber sabasoben_

_Hobaseeba snick_

_Seeberraber hobosoben_

_What did you expect?_

_No time, no time for you._

_I got no time, baby,_

_Got lots of better things to do._"

.

This time it was Rick, Mike, Vyvyan and Neil's turn to watch in stunned awe as their four roommates began running madly around the flat. Davy began chasing Mike around the kitchen table in a strange high-step run. Both were wearing maniacal grins. Micky, on the other hand, immediately darted up the stairs and slid clumsily down the railing while Peter grabbed the discarded telephone and mimed making a frantic phone call. All four seemed totally oblivious to anything including their present predicament.   
"What in the hell are they doing?" Rick asked.   
"I think they've gone crazy," answered Mike. For once, he was at a complete loss.   
. 

"_Runnin' from the risin' heat_

_To find a place to hide,_

_The grass is always greener_

_Growin' on the other side._

_No time, no time for you_

_I got no time, baby,_

_Got lots of better things to do._"

.   
Peter, having given up the phone, dashed over to Mr. Schneider and theatrically made an attempt to replace the head in the most roundabout way possible. Micky ran into the downstairs bedroom, but emerged seconds later from the upstairs room and commenced sliding down the railing. Mike and Davy continued their high-step run only this time with Davy as the chased. As they circled the confused figures of Vyvyan, Mike and Rick, Vyvyan decided to join in the fun. He grabbed the frying pan from Rick and smacked first Davy and then Mike in the face while grinning and tapping his foot to the music.   
. 

"_No time, no time for you_

_I got no time, baby,_

_Got lots of better things to do._

_Tryin' to tell the world_

_Somehow of how I feel._

_Tell me what you said again,_

_I can't believe it's real._" *

.   
The mayhem continued. Mike TheCoolPerson was starting to get agitated. Finally he noticed what was amiss. "Neil, turn that off," he said.   
Neil turned the tape player off. "Sorry," he said. "I must have hit the play button accidentally."   
As soon as the music stopped, all four Monkees instantly froze. This was particularly easy for Mike and Davy as they were still lying on the floor.   
"And what exactly was that?" Mike asked them.   
"Uniform idioting if you ask me," Rick said.   
"Well I didn't ask you Rick, I asked them," Mike continued. "Well?" he prodded.   
The group assembled and looked at each other sheepishly. "It's a typical Monkee romp," Micky answered.   
"That's what you call typical, is it?" Mike pressed on.   
"I'd call it bloody stupid," Vyvyan said.   
"True, but I didn't ask you either, did I?" He turned his attention back to the others. "You do this often then?"   
They shrugged uneasily, but said nothing.   
"I think they're just a bunch of long-haired weirdoes," Neil said before noticing the length of his own hair. "Oh, sorry. Never mind." He paused. "I'm really not making lu--"   
"Stop right there, Neil," Mike said before Neil could go on. "It is a rare occasion that you interest me, but today is a day for rare occasions. Why do you keep saying you won't make lunch?"   
"Because, they're back," Neil said.   
"Who?" Rick asked.   
"Rick, I'm asking the questions," Mike said. He looked back at Neil, "Who?"   
"You remember guys, the Lentil Fairies. They've been again."   
"What? They've _been_, in our kitchen?" Vyvyan questioned.   
"Oh that's just typical!" Rick yelled. "We turn our back for five minutes and mythical Lentil Fairies have shat in our kitchen!"   
Neil shook his head. "No, they've been _here_," he whispered.   
Everyone looked down towards the ground. Vyvyan went so far as the check the bottom of his shoes.   
"No," Neil corrected. "I _mean_ they've come, again."   
"Oh that's disgusting, Neil!" Rick proclaimed.   
"Neil," Mike interrupted, "how do your fantasies about fairies cuming in the kitchen effect the preparation of our lunch." He paused to consider this. "On second thought I don't want to know."   
"I do!" Vyvyan said.   
"That's just like you Vyvyan," Rick told him haughtily. "We've got a dead body in the sitting room and all you can thing about is sex."   
"So?!"   
"I _mean_," Neil intervened getting uncharacteristically annoyed. "There are no lentils left at all! I think, right, they must have snuck in last night and stolen them. All of them," he finished in a whisper. "It seems the only reasonable explanation."   
"Oh my God! We're under attack by magical Lentil Fairies! What are we going to do!" Rick shouted hysterically. "Quick! Quick! We have to do something! Uh . . . barricade the door!"   
"What door?" Micky asked.   
"Oh no! We don't even have a door to barricade! Don't just stand there, do something!" he hollered at everyone.   
Vyvyan took the initiative. He got a firm grip on the frying pan and smashed it over Rick's head with all his might. "Better?" he   
asked.   
Rick was calmed. "Much better thank you Vyvyan!" he said sarcastically before turning his attention back to Neil. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"   
"Well I did try Rick, like for the past ten minutes, but nobody ever listens to anything I have to say. You're not even listening now . . ."   
"Oh shut up, Neil. Nobody cares," Rick told him.   
Mike and the others were by now recovered from their previous embarrassment. "What are you talking about stolen lentils? We never had any lentils, and you guys didn't bring any food."   
"Oh. Well than forget I said anything," Neil replied amicably.   
"That shouldn't be too difficult considering we never listen to you anyway!" Rick retorted.   
"I knew it," Neil said.   
"See? I didn't even hear that," added Rick.   
"Lentils, or lack there of, are the least of our problems," Mike interrupted before Neil could reply, and Rick could pretend not to hear him.   
"I don't see what the big deal is, it's not the first corpse we've had to deal with," Neil said.   
"Isn't it?" Peter asked half with hope and half horrified.   
"Remember guys? That one bloke Vyvyan found."   
"He wasn't dead," Rick snapped.   
"But I thought . . ."   
"He wasn't dead," repeated Rick.   
Neil paused to contemplate this before his face lit up with comprehension. A slight grin crossed his face. "Oh, so that's why he struggled so much when we tried to shove him in the boot of your car."   
"Yes," added Vyvyan, "and that's why he screamed so loudly when we set fire to him." Vyvyan paused. "That's it!" he suddenly cried, elated. "We'll set fire to her!" He ran out the door to prepare his plan.   
"Oh no! This is gonna get heavy, I know it," Neil said glancing nervously about the room.   
"What's he gonna do?" the taller Mike questioned just as Vyvyan reappeared a blow torch in his hand and a welding mask obscuring his face. He headed for Melissa and turned the torch on.   
"Oh that's right Vyvyan, burn the evidence. As if that'll save you," Rick said haughtily.   
Vyvyan regarded him silently, the fire mere inches from the girls paling skin. "Why are you talking about? You killed her," he said finally.   
Rick was shocked. "But I never touched her!"   
"No, but the frying pan did, and you were holding it at the time."   
Rick was suddenly panic stricken. "What do you mean?! I didn't kill her, you did with the bomb in the sofa!"   
"Ah," Vyvyan began, lifting his mask to look Rick in the eyes, "but she was still alive after I killed her, therefore it was the frying pan that did her in." Having made his point, Vyvyan smiled and replaced the welding mask. He turned back to the girl, his torch alight.   
"Now hold on Vyv!" Mike intervened.   
Vyvyan held the torch poised.   
"Remember, what happened last time you set someone on fire?" Mike continued.   
"No."   
"I do," Neil scowled.   
"Well in that case I suggest you re-read part one," Mike said to Vyvyan.   
"That's right!" Rick interjected. "If you hadn't set fire to Neil's trousers than we wouldn't have had to move in with these bastards and none of this would be happening!"   
"Rick, stop crying," Mike said.   
Rick wiped a tear from his cheek. "I'm not crying, Mike, there's just something in my eye."   
"Well," Vyvyan began, addressing Rick, "if you hadn't said 'Why don't we set Neil on fire, that'll be good for a laugh' I never would have tried it. At least not inside the house."   
"You bastard! Don't go trying to blame this on me!" Rick shouted hitting Vyvyan ineffectually on the arm.   
In response, Vyvyan hit him very effectually in the back of the head with the blow torch.   
"Ow!" he yelled stumbling forward. "Anyway, if Neil hadn't been born at all I never would have said it and we wouldn't be in this mess!"   
"Oh, so everything is my fault?" asked Neil.   
"Yes," Rick, Mike and Vyvyan agreed.   
"So I guess the hole in the ozone is my fault, and the assassination of JFK and every war ever, and . . ." he paused in thought, "and Rick's transvestism and obsession with Cosmopolitan."   
Rick and Vyvyan had been nodding in agreement until that last bit where Rick jumped up to protest but was immediately struck down by Vyvyan fist.   
"Sounds right to me," agreed Vyvyan.   
"That's not true! I've never touched women's clothes in my life," Rick protested.   
"Or a woman for that matter," Mike added.   
"Unless you count Monica," offered Neil.   
Rick's eyes widened in terror. "Monica? I don't believe I know a Monica," he lied lamely.   
"Oh yes, Monica," Vyvyan said. "Your 'life-size female companion' complete with three lifelike orifices and puncture repair kit."   
Rick stared at him, his breath coming in fitful gasps. Finally he let out with, "You've been going through my things again, haven't you?"   
"Yes!" Vyvyan answered brightly.   
Rick cursed. He'd hoped to catch Vyvyan in a lie.   
Vyvyan motioned to the dead girl with the blow torch. "Please Mike?"   
"No."   
"Just a leg?"   
"No."   
"A foot?"   
"No!"   
"A toe!?"   
"Vyv, I hate to say anything negative, but no. You are notoriously bad with fire."   
Vyvyan took on a dejected look and cast the blow torch aside carefully making sure it hit Neil square on the head. The hippie fell to the floor without a sound. Taking off the mask, Vyvyan slumped unhappily on a chair.   
"Man!" the other Mike exclaimed, "you guys have a powerful tendency to digress!"   
"So?" Vyvyan pointed out.   
"Yeah, what of it, ya square?" Rick added.   
"We have to do something about her. Something sensible," Mike continued.   
"Will you please not use that word in this house. If there's one thing we are not, it's sensible!" Rick said proudly.   
Mike sighed in frustration and noticed he'd been doing a lot of that lately. "We can't just leave her there."   
"We should call the police," Davy remarked.   
"What for?" Neil queried. "To come round, smash the place up, drop donut crumbs all over the carpet and arrest everyone for obstructing justice?"   
"That's not what the police do," Mike protested.   
"Yes they do," argued Neil.   
"Yeah, and he should know. He was one of the pigs once," Rick added.   
"We _have_ to call the police," Mike demanded. "What else can we do?"   
"I've got it!" Micky yelled suddenly. "A great idea!"   
"Well?" everyone asked simultaneously.   
"That's what we need a great idea!" Micky continued.   
The other's sighed in disappointment.   
"Well thank you George Michael Einstein!" Rick commented. "We already knew that!"   
"We gotta talk to the writer!" Micky added.   
_Oh no, no, no, no! Hold it right there. Don't you _dare_ go dragging me into this. This is not going to be one of _those_ stories. You know what I'm talking about, where the writer starts talking back to the characters. You can just forget about it! You can all fuck off for all I care. I mean, you got yourselves into this mess, you can damn well get yourselves right back out. It drives me up the wall all these people who write themselves into their stories for no other reason than to have it off with one of the characters. Fantasy's fine, but can't we just keep it to ourselves? It's ridiculous all these . . ._   
Rick coughed, "But miss writer-person, you have written yourself in this."   
_Don't you start with me spotty. I'll kick your white ass across this page before you can say "I'm a fucking moron." I'll send you packing to oblivion so fast you won't know your head from your bottom. Got it?_   
"Sorry," Rick said obsequiously.   
_That's better. Maybe I did write myself in, but do you see me snogging with Davy Jones? (Not that I'd mind terribly, mind you.) No! What am I doing? I'm lying dead on the floor, aren't I? I don't have to do this you know? I don't have to write this mindless nonsensical crap. I don't get paid for it or anything. I do it for the two people out there who might just read it and tell me what a complete piece of shit it is and what a total git I am for having thought it up in the first place. And what is it with people who can't put their damn blinker on when they're driving. Now that really pisses me off. Am I supposed to guess telepathically that they're going to change lanes right in front of my car? Or those people who can't merge. The sign doesn't say 'sit there like a stupid asshole until it's clear for two miles in either direction' does it? No! It's says merge. So please, for God's sake just go! Cut someone off if you have to but get the hell out of my way. Why do they give stupid people driver's licenses anyway? They ought to give IQ tests instead of driving exams. Any idiot can drive around a bunch of friggin' cones, but how many people on the road can say that their IQ is higher than their age? Not many by my last count._   
_ Okay, I seem to have strayed a bit. The point is, I'm not the sort of person to go on a long idiotic rant in my own story, and you pratts are on your own. I'm off!_   
By now, the eight were standing around looking very bored.   
"Thank God! I thought she'd never leave. What a bitch!" Rick exclaimed.   
"Yeah, good idea fuzzy!" Vyvyan added sarcastically.   
"Sorry," Micky said meekly.   
"I'm calling the police," Mike said firmly.   
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the shorter Mike stated.   
"Why not?"   
"Because if you do, there's a very good chance that you're friend here," he gestured to Micky, "is going to find himself short yet another drumstick. Isn't that right, Vyv?"   
"Right as rain, Michael!" Vyvyan shouted, grinning.   
"I know! We could eat the body!" Rick suggested.   
"You would Rick," Neil accused, "you know I'm a vegetarian!"   
"You wouldn't even eat one body? Not even to help out a mate?" Rick asked.   
"You're not my friend, Rick. You don't even like me."   
"You bastard!" Rick shouted. "You utter, utter bastard! You can' t even do me one small favour! You didn't cook breakfast this morning, you wouldn't go down to the shops that day the city flooded, you wouldn't swap rooms with me after Vyvyan was sick all over my bed and now you won't help me eat that dead girl on the floor. That's just typical of you Neil! You're so selfish!"   
"Nobody is eating anybody," the shorter Mike said. "Now the way I see it we could burn her, bury her or dump her. Burning her is out for the obvious reasons so I'm willing to take suggestions. What should we do with the body?"   
"What body?" Vyvyan asked slyly. Everyone turned to look and sure enough, Melissa was gone. The song "No Time" was written by Hank Cicalo and performed by the Monkees on Headquarters. 


	7. Penguin Digressions

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part Seven: Penguin Digressions**   
  
At least that's how it appeared for the first split second; however upon further inspection--further inspection being a brief glance around the room--they discovered to their dismay they had been incorrect. To Vyvyan's credit the body was no longer sprawled out haphazardly on the floor of the pad. It was now slumping precariously in the chair hitherto occupied by the headless wooden advisor. A half-hearted attempt had obviously been made to disguise the corpse as Mr. Schneider. The dummy's jacket, much to large for her small frame, hung loosely from the girl's shoulders, and the trousers were strewn across her lap not even covering a small burn mark just below her right knee. The height of the disguise was the wig which had been torn from the dummy's head and place atop the girl's unruly hair. All in all it was a cunning disguise. Cunning, that is, for a half blind retarded penguin with a bladder control problem and a tendency to bash its head into walls.   
Vyvyan winked at the penguin which was sitting in a warm yellowish puddle. Not surprisingly, it didn't wink back. This may have been due to the fact that it was a half blind retarded penguin with a bladder control problem and a tendency to bash its head into walls but was probably because it was in fact a stuffed penguin and of very little consequence to the prior goings-on. The warm yellowish liquid, for those keen on detail, was a bit of a mystery. It may have been caused when Peter spilled a glass of lemonade the other day which no one had yet cleaned up; however, it was more likely due to the fact that Vyvyan was taking a piss on it, thus warranting the surreptitious wink.   
Had Vyvyan known the truth about this so called stuffed penguin, he would never dare perform such a desecration, for this was no ordinary penguin. This was Petey!   
Yes Petey Penguin, famous throughout penguindom for his masterful cake decorating, his ability to explode on cue without aid of pyrotechnics (Technically, as many critics point out, this has never been proven, but as Petey quickly points out in return, it has yet to be disproved either. Thus the argument rages on. No one really believes Petey on this count, but his fans back him all the way. If he wants to make outrageous claims, let him. After all, he's Petey!), and his amazing ability to impersonate stuffed penguins. The latter was what he had been concentrating on for the past two years, nine months, twenty-four days, nineteen hours and forty-two minutes. He was a mere ten minutes from the breaking the Penguin Olympic World Record for "consistent stuffed penguin impersonation" which had been held since 1979 by Porky Penguin (no relation). The only reason Porky had lasted so long was because he was so morbidly obese he could no longer move. It took his friends and family two years, nine months, twenty-four days, nineteen hours and fifty-two minutes to find a crane capable of lifting three tons of raw penguin. Unfortunately, this movement caused Porky's head to fall off and Penguin authorities soon discovered he'd been dead for somewhere around a year and a half only no one had noticed.   
The medal was awarded to him nonetheless in hopes that his family would not bring a lawsuit against the committee for negligence or something equally terrifying. This caused a good deal of outrage among the penguin community who for the most part agreed he should be disqualified considering he was an ex-penguin. Particularly outraged was Pee-Pee P. Penguin (no relation) who had previously held the record. This, coupled with the fact that his name was Pee-Pee, cause him to attempt to drown himself by leaping off the nearest iceberg. It took him nearly six months to remember that he was a penguin and consequently very good at swimming. After much deliberation he attempted to freeze to death by leaping off the nearest iceberg. This too was unsuccessful. After many years of leaping off icebergs, Pee-Pee finally gave up on suicide and decided to go live life to its fullest in the tropics where he suffered a heat stroke six seconds after stepping off the plane and died.   
As for that hulk that was Porky, it was dropped down a mine shaft never to be heard from again.   
With all this on his mind and just over nine minutes to go, Petey was understandably outraged that some red-haired prick was using him as a toilet.   
Momentarily forgetting himself, he turned on Vyvyan, leapt up and with all his penguiny might kicked the exposed man in the groin. Vyvyan howled in pain as Petey ran for the door as quickly as his tiny webbed feet would carry him. He cursed loudly as he ran. It had suddenly occurred to him that he'd just blown his chances for the Penguin Olympic Record and he'd just wasted two years, nine months, twenty-four days, nineteen hours and forty-two minutes of his life. He cursed again as he ran stiffly on.   
To those present his curses sounded . . . well, like whatever sound it is penguins make only much longer and much much louder. Had any of them had a copy of Piddle P. Penguin's (no relation) "Naughty No-no Words You Shouldn't Know Much Less Use In Conversation" they would have discovered he said something very similar to "Goddamn, mother-fucking, shit-headed, dick-faced, cock-sucking, arsehole! Burn in hell you fucking tiny dick moron!" This is a very loose translation as the actual saying is much to dirty to commit to paper and besides which, many of the phrases do not translate properly. Such phrases as "electric donkey sucking" and "iceberg leaping Pee-Pee head" have been omitted.   
As Petey ran he was relieved to discover no one was following.   
Vyvyan would very much like to have followed only he was a bit busy at the moment lying on the floor, holding his you-know-whats and moaning in pain. The others were too amazed to so much as exhale much less go running after a squealing and possibly deranged penguin that had just kicked the crap (almost literally) out of Vyvyan of all people.   
"What the bloody hell was that?" Rick exclaimed once Vyvyan's moaning had subsided.   
"Looked like a penguin," Neil answered.   
"I know that, but what was it doing?"   
"Standing?" Davy suggested.   
Rick sighed.   
"Perhaps it comes from next door," Neil theorized.   
"Yeah!" Rick agreed. "She must have sent round her killer penguin once she discovered she was in trouble. The bitch!"   
"When? After she died?" the taller Mike inquired sarcastically.   
"Besides, penguins don't come from next door they come from Anarctica," Davy told Neil.   
"Anarctica," Micky began singing, "is where I wanna be . . ."   
"Shut up!" Rick yelled at him.   
"Oh," Neil said. "Perhaps it's from the zoo."   
"Yugoslavia!" Vyvyan suddenly interjected having managed finally to stand up.   
"It's not from Yugoslavia, Vyvyan," Rick scolded.   
"No I mean 'Yugoslavia' as in panic and alarm," explained Vyvyan.   
"Okay," Rick answered slowly and uncertainly. The others merely stared at him in blank incomprehension.   
"I doubt it's from the zoo or Yugoslavia considering that thing has been sitting there for the past," Micky pulled out an abacus from behind his back, "two years, nine months, twenty-four days, nineteen hours and forty-two minutes."   
Rick looked as though he were about to explode. "Oh! Oh! Oh! You'll give free reign to an insane, homicidal penguin with a tendency to bash its head into walls . . . uh, I mean a tendency to kick people in the knackers, but we kill one person and you're on the phone to the pigs!"   
Peter jumped in terror. "Pigs?! Where?!"   
"No Pete," Mike explained patiently, "he means the police."   
Peter jumped in terror. "Police?! Where?!"   
"Never mind good buddy," said Mike shaking his head.   
"You're completely stupid, aren't you?" the other Mike asked Peter.   
"Yeah, you've got the brains of . . ." Rick paused in thought before finally coming up with, "someone with no brains at all."   
"That's very uncool guys, putting him down like that," said Neil in Peter's defence. "Besides, he's not stupid, he's 'thinking impaired'." Neil glanced at Peter apologetically. "I'm sorry man."   
"That's okay," Peter replied, smiling warmly, "I didn't quite understand what you meant."   
It was funny he said that as it was the exact phrase uttered by Pupple Penguin (no relation) just prior to his demise. Well known for being the oldest living Penguin, Pupple was swimming merrily through the arctic waters one day looking for something to round off his meal of fish. He was thinking fish would do nicely, when a strange thing occurred. He suddenly dropped dead on the spot, but not before uttering: "That's okay, I didn't quite understand what you meant."   
It has long been debated among penguin scholars what he could possibly have meant by such an utterance. One group believed that he was communicating directly with The Great Poo-Poo (the penguins' name for God) and that this was indisputable proof that the afterlife ("Iceberg in the Sky") as well as The Great Poo-Poo did indeed exist. Others, however, were of the opinion that Pupple's final remark owed to the fact that Pupple was the oldest living penguin alive and consequently, if you'll excuse the pun, completely out of his bird. There was evidence to support this second supposition in as much as Pupple was often heard to shout random nonsense at others or at nothing at all. For instance, at the last "Great Penguin Gathering," Pupple was seen by all to jump up on the nearest iceberg and shout "I am the leader of the cheesemakers. All hail to me keeper of the sacred cheddar!" The strange part being that penguins had no knowledge of cheese at all. Many scholars took this outcry to mean . . .   
"Would you stop with the bloody penguin stories already!" Vyvyan suddenly shouted.   
_As you wish . . ._   
"I _hate_ penguins," muttered Vyvyan. 


	8. The End Absolutely No Penguins

The Young Ones Monkees

By Melisssa 

* * *

**Part Eight: The End (Absolutely No Penguins)**

"What do you think of my disguise?" Vyvyan asked referring to the corpse he had crudely dressed as Mr. Schneider.   
Rick looked at in in disgust. "Vyvyan that is absolutely . . . brilliant!" he said, changing gears on the last word.   
"You think so?" ask Vyvyan.   
"Yes. You could go far with a brain like that."   
"I hate to burst your bubble, Rick, but with a brain like that he'd barely make it to the door," Mike told him.   
"What door?" the other Mike asked.   
"You know perfectly well what I mean, Woolie," Mike commented before turning his attention back to Rick and Vyvyan. "You really think this is going to work?"   
"Of course, Mike," Vyvyan said as he and Rick arranged the clothes on the girl's body.   
"And what happens when she starts to decompose? What will the landlord say? The smell alone should be enough to drive us out of house and home."   
"Ooh, I hadn't though of that," said Rick. "I still say we should eat her."   
"We could buy air freshener!" Vyvyan suggested.   
"True," Rick agreed, "but we would need some money to do that."   
"Good point," concurred Vyvyan, "We could shoplift air freshener!"   
Rick nodded his assent. "That could work! Yeah! That'd really stick it to Thatcher and the bourgeois fat-cats!"   
"Vyv, you can not possibly think this is going to work," said Mike.   
"I can!"   
"Why don't we dump her body in the ocean?" Micky suggested.   
"Micky!" Davy, Mike and Peter yelled in surprise.   
"Well it's obvious they won't let us call the police, so we may as well pitch in," Micky reasoned.   
"That'll make us accomplices," noted Davy.   
"You already are," corrected Mike casually.   
A pall settled over the room as each man came to the realization that they might actually have to work together. It was almost too horrible to contemplate.   
"Why _don't_ we throw her into the ocean?" Vyvyan asked.   
"It would never work," Neil said unhappily.   
"Why not?"   
"Low tide. Bummer."   
"Suicide!" Rick suddenly yelled.   
"I don't see how it would help Rick, but by all means go to it," Mike told him.   
"No not me . . ." Rick corrected.   
"Damn!" Vyvyan sulked.   
". . . I mean her."   
"How can she commit suicide? She's already dead," stated Neil.   
"No! We'll say that she committed suicide and that's how she died!"   
"Suicide?" Mike asked, unconvinced.   
"Yes! First she blew herself up," Rick began excitedly complete with hand gestures, "but when that didn't work she hit herself in the head with the frying pan . . . uh repeatedly . . ."   
"And then kicked herself violently in the stomach several times. It's completely brilliant," added Vyvyan.   
"And then dressed herself up as Mr. Schneider?" asked an equally unconvinced other Mike.   
"Exactly!" shouted Vyvyan.   
"It's perfect," Rick added.   
"What is wrong with you two? Do you have some kind of mental deficiency?!" Mike Nesmith yelled. "Surely you can see this will never work. Why don't you come out of your dreamworld?"   
Davy perked up noticeably. "That's a good idea for a song," he said to Mike and began humming to himself.   
"No idiot would believe that," Mike continued.   
"It _is_ a good idea for a tune!" Davy insisted.   
"No not that. I mean no idiot would believe she killed herself," he Mike.   
"Oh," said Davy and went back to humming.   
"Even I wouldn't believe that," Peter stated.   
"Nor would I," came a hazy female voice.   
It sounded like Melissa had spoken. Everyone's eyes were immediately drawn to the corpse which being a corpse did absolutely nothing except slump in the chair where Rick and Vyvyan had left it.   
"What was that?" Micky asked.   
"Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!" Rick shouted. "She's back and she's pissed! Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!"   
"Shut up!" Vyvyan screamed at Rick.   
"Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!" responded Rick.   
Vyvyan delivered a punch to Rick's jaw knocking the man several feet back.   
"Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!" was all Rick would say.   
"Shut up!" said the voice.   
"Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!"   
Suddenly, the frying pan which had earlier been tossed aside began to hover seemingly of its own accord. It drifted over to the screaming Rick and hit him in the head with a loud clang. Rick immediately stopped, but pan did not. It continued to pound Rick on the head over and over until finally he lay unconscious on the floor.   
The flying pan dropped immediately to the ground and for a moment the room was deathly still. The seven conscious men stood rooted to the floor paralysed with fear. Vyvyan was the first to move, not that he had intended to do so. After a loud crunching sound, he found himself lying next to Rick clutching his much abused groin in pain. He groaned as the force that levelled Rick beat him violently about the stomach and the head until mercifully, he too blacked out.   
  
Rick awoke to find himself lying on the floor next to Vyvyan and facing Melissa. She looked just as she had before her demise only she was now slightly more transparent. He briefly considered having a jolly good yell, but decided that that could have rather painful repercussions. Instead, he rose slowly and was followed almost instantly by Vyvyan who still held his stomach and groin in pain. Both men backed away from the apparition bumping into Neil in the process.   
Neil wore a crooked grin on his face. "Wow," he said breaking the silence, "instant karma."   
"What do you want from us?" Mike asked his Texan drawl thicker than usual.   
"Oh please don't kill me!" Rick exclaimed. "Please, I didn't want to kill you, honestly. It was all Vyvyan's fault! I thought you were dead, really!"   
"Shut up, Rick," she answered, her voice a ghostly whisper. She turned her attention slowly back to the questioner. When she spoke her lips barely moved as though she had trouble synchronizing them to her speech, but her blue eyes betrayed the horror she must have felt. "What do I want? I want whatever it is that happens to people who die to happen to me! I'm stuck here and I don't know what to do! Apparently, if movies are to be believed, I've left something unfinished, but I don't know what. I don't even know how to go about finding out. I don't even know how to go about going about finding out."   
"I suppose this means naked twister is out?" Mike asked casually.   
Melissa paused to examine him. "There is something seriously wrong with you."   
"So you're stuck here until you can figure out what you need to do?" Micky clarified.   
"I think so. I thought this might be it. It felt pretty darn good, but I'm still here."   
"Bitch!" Vyvyan gasped having finally regained his composure.   
"Don't call me a bitch you prick!"   
"Don't call me a prick you tart!"   
"Don't call me a tart you ass!"   
"Don't call me an . . ."   
"Please!" Mike Nesmith interrupted. "This is getting us nowhere."   
"You'd fit right in here, you know," Davy commented to the ghost.   
"Maybe," Neil jumped in, "you need to do to us what we did to you."   
Melissa mulled the thought over. "You mean you want me to dress you up like Mr. Schneider?"   
"No I mean blow us up!" Neil said excitedly, but then seemed to think better of it. "Uh, or not," he added lamely.   
"No!" Rick exclaimed when Melissa seemed to warm to the idea. "You don't want to blow us up!"   
"Why not?"   
"Uh . . . why not? Well . . . because . . ." Rick stammered.   
"Because, I may be short in stature, baby, but believe me, I'm hung like a rhinoceros on the last day of mating season," Mike told her.   
Melissa affected a sigh. "And that's supposed to convince me _not_ to blow you up?"   
Mike merely winked seductively.   
"Still, it might work," she said to herself.   
"I thought you might agree, darling," said Mike.   
"No! Not that! If only I had some explosives."   
"Well," Vyvyan began smartly, "there certainly isn't a bomb taped under the kitchen table."   
"I see." Melissa walked over to the table and after several unsuccessful tries--her hand kept passing through the tabletop--she succeeded in knocking it over. Sure enough there was a very tiny black bomb taped there. The fact that it was so small made it somehow hugely frightening.   
"Good one Vyv," Mike commented.   
"Don't worry lads," said Vyvyan sotto voce, "she'll never figure out how to arm it."   
Melissa studied the tiny black bomb intently trying to determine how to arm it. It took her nearly two seconds to find the tiny red button that said "Press Here To Arm Bomb." She pressed the button.   
"Hello," it responded in a friendly voice. "You have just activated the 'Ultra Rapid Fully Unstoppable Compact Killing Explosive Device' more commonly known by the abbreviation 'URFUCKED' brought to you by the makers of Furby. If you are listening to this message you now have 90 seconds left to live. Have a nice death and thank you for using the URFUCKED. Your patronage is appreciated." Once it had finished its speech the screen lit up with the number 90 and slowly its began the countdown.   
"Vyvyan, where did you get that bomb!?" Mike demanded, his normally cool facade having been dropped.   
"Found it!" Vyvyan answered somewhat defensively.   
"What'll we do?" hollered Rick.   
"I don't know about you guys, but I'm getting out of here!" exclaimed the taller Mike as he, Micky, Davy and Peter dashed for the doorway. They were surprised the others didn't immediately follow. They were even more surprised to find a door barring their path.   
"The door's locked!" yelled Davy.   
"What door!?" exclaimed Rick, Mike, Vyvyan and Neil simultaneously.   
"This door!" Mike answered back.   
"What's _that_ doing there?" Neil asked as he and the others approached.   
"Blocking our way," Mike TheCoolPerson said. "Can't you unlock it?"   
Davy shook his head. "No, we need a key to unlock the dead bolt."   
"Well where's the key?" Mike demanded.   
"I don't know!" Davy shouted.   
"What's this?" said Micky bending over. He stood back up, an envelope clutched in his hands. "Someone must have slipped it under the door."   
"Well what does it say!?" demanded Rick.   
Micky read the note aloud. It said:   
  
Dear Boys,   
Heard you were having a little door trouble and thought we'd fix it up for you. The key should be outside under the mat. That's $500 you owe us. Don't ever say we never did anything for you. See you in hell!   
Your loving (co) landlords,   
Mr. Babbit and Mr. Balowski   
  
Also included was a business card:   


Doors-In-A-Jiffy Ltd.

Door's installed noiselessly in under

five minutes or your money back!

**Guaranteed!**

"Great!" Rick exclaimed. "I don't want to die! I'm too young. There's so much left that I haven't done! I'm going to die, and I've never had sex once!"   
"I knew you were a virgin!" Vyvyan grinned.   
Rick ignored Vyvyan's remark. "Just once, that's all I wanted. Just to see what it's like."   
"Cheer up Rick, no girl would ever have slept with you anyway," Vyvyan consoled.   
Rick sighed. "I suppose your probably ri . . . shut up, you bastard!"   
"I hardly think it matters now Rick since we're all gonna die a terrible death," said Neil.   
"That's right, Neil. Look on the bright side," Rick chided sarcastically.   
"I guess there's nothing more to do now, but sit and wait for the end," Mike added.   
"Or," began his taller counterpart, "we could go out the back door."   
"What?" came the quadrupled reply.   
"The backdoor is still opened or at least it should be."   
They all turned toward the patio doors catching site of the bomb timer as they went. It read 07.   
"We'll never make it in time!" Neil yelled.   
06   
"We're doomed," squealed Rick.   
05   
"Well that's it!" the shorter Mike exclaimed.   
04   
"Neil, I'm sorry I fed your term paper to SPG."   
03   
"Really Vyv?"   
02   
"No, not really."   
01   
"Good-bye everyone!" Micky shouted as they all cringed in anticipation of the impending explosion.   
01   
Nothing happened.   
01   
"What happened?" Davy asked as everyone uncringed themselves.   
01   
"Nothing," Mike said.   
01   
"It didn't go off!" Vyvyan yelled testily.   
01   
"Why not?" queried Rick.   
"Because I stopped it," Melissa said. Until now they had all but forgotten her ghostly presence.   
"How?" Vyvyan wanted to know.   
"What were you a bomb expert?" inquired Micky.   
"No, I just pressed this button here," she said pointing to another small red button that said "Press Here To Disarm Bomb."   
"That's the last time I nick a bomb from bloody Toys R Us," Vyvyan stated.   
Mike sauntered over to the apparition, his casual manner firmly back in place. "I knew it. You couldn't do it, baby. You knew you couldn't enjoy the afterlife without first climbing on board the Mike-express."   
"What?"   
"That's right, climb aboard. The midnight train leaves from my room in five minutes, just check your knickers in with the railway clerk."   
"Are you fucking insane?"   
"No, but I'd be willing to shag her too if that's what you're into."   
"Will someone shut him up, please!" exclaimed the other Mike.   
"How come you stopped the bomb?" Peter tentatively asked.   
"I couldn't kill anyone, even if they did kill me. Besides it seemed unfair to blow up everyone just because of two people. Even if some of them are mentally deranged," she explained glancing at Mike.   
"Blah, blah, blah! I'm crying my eyes out," interrupted Rick. "Look, I don't mean to rush you, but seeing as you're not going to blow us up or anything, don't you have an afterlife to get on with."   
As soon as he said it, a light descended seemingly from the heavens to envelop the girl in an angelic white light. She looked up into the warm glow her eyes unshielded, for though the light seemed extraordinarily bright, it did not hurt her eyes or those of her companions. She looked back at the eight astonished men in front of her. "I think you're right, Rick." Her voice, where before it was a ghostly whisper, seemed now to echo melodiously from every direction of the room. "I guess all that's left is for me to say good-bye." She looked at each in turn as she said their name. "Good-bye Michael Nesmith, David Jones, Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork, Mike TheCoolPerson, Neil Pye, Vyvyan Basterd and Rick . . . what is your last name Rick?"   
"Mayall isn't it?" Neil asked.   
"No!" hollered Rick.   
"I know," Vyvyan told her, "it's ThePrick."   
"Oh ha ha, Vyvyan! That is the most predictable thing you have ever said. How utterly witty. Talk about Oscar Wilde."   
"Okay," said Vyvyan and then proceeded to yell at the top of his lungs. "Oscar Wilde was a 19th century playwright and novelist. Although well-known for his comedic writings and brilliant witticisms, he was persecuted for his blatant homosexuality and his wildly eccentric behavior (excuse the pun). Some of Wilde's most popular works include _De Profundis_, _The Canterville Ghost_, and _The Importance of Being Earnest_."   
Rick was taken somewhat aback. "My Vyvyan. What an eloquent ejaculation."   
"What? Where!?" Vyvyan exclaimed, his hands and eyes leaping to his groin. When he found nothing amiss he addressed Rick, "I did not!"   
"No, I mean what came out of your mouth!"   
"Nothing came out of my mouth you pervert!" Vyvyan yelled as he belted Rick across the face.   
"No!" Rick screamed. "I just meant that what you said was very nice!"   
"Well why didn't you say so in the first place?"   
"I did! Christ, it's like living with cave men."   
"You mean troglodytes, Rick?" questioned Neil.   
"Uh," Rick began nervously. He clearly was unsure what "troglodyte" meant. "Of course Neil. That's exactly what I meant." To Vyvyan he added, "You trolgamyte!"   
Vyvyan merely shrugged. "So what is your last name?"   
"Uh . . . well . . ." he began unsure of himself but suddenly gained confidence as he said, "I don't have one. Pretty anarchic, eh? That'll send Thatcher and her minions running for the hills! That's right!" he said to the others' vacant stares. "When the revolution comes which side will you be on, fascists? I'm a young one, a wild rowdy red-shoed rebel! I've got hate in my eyes, and I'm not gonna take it anymore. Down with Thatcher, down with the government. I've got a one-way ticket to oblivion and I haven't even brought clean underpants!"   
"That's all fine and well," the taller Mike said, "but I think Melissa here is trying to ascend into heaven."   
Rick looked disappointed.   
Melissa looked confused. "Heaven?" she asked. "But I'm agnostic." And suddenly the light surrounding her vanished. "Oh shit," she said and conveniently popped out of existence.   
"That'll teach you not to know whether to believe in anything or not!" Rick yelled at the empty space.   
"But I thought you were agnostic, Rick."   
"Shut up Neil. Anyway, that's that then," Rick said looking around bleakly.   
"Well not entirely, Rick," commented Mike. "There is still the matter of disposing of the body and perhaps even paramount to that the matter of disposing of the bomb."   
Rick smirked at Vyvyan. "Perhaps there's a little red button on it that says 'Press Here To Dispose of Bomb'."   
"Or perhaps I should give you a crack in the bollocks!" Vyvyan reasoned picking up a cricket bat the happened to be lying nearby on the floor.   
"Vyvyan, no!" yelled a horrified Rick.   
"Rick, yes!" said Vyvyan and promptly began to beat the living shit out of Rick.   
"That'll keep them busy for a few hours," said Mike.   
"Ahhh, stop Vyvyan!" Rick shouted.   
"Shut it, ya ponce!" retorted Vyvyan.   
"What are we gonna do Mike?" Neil asked.   
"What we always do when there's trouble."   
"You mean run around in a blind panic?"   
"No, I . . ."   
"I'll tell you what you can do with your bomb," came a different voice. Everyone, Rick and Vyvyan included, turned to find SPG perched atop the bomb one tiny paw poised above the little red button that said "Press Here To Arm Bomb."   
"You can burn in hell you wanking bastards!" he shouted and pressed the button. The clock blinked back into life.   
01   
"Shit," came a chorus of four voices. I won't tell you which four said it, but you can probably guess anyway.   
00   
"Thank you for using the URFUCKED. We hope you have a nice explosion."   


_BOOM!_

  
The End . . . well not quite actually.   
The midday sun remained hidden by ominous looking storm clouds. Eight men stood amidst the ruins of what once was a comfortable flat, but was now a smouldering pile of rubble. They were dirty. Their clothes and skin were streaked with grit. Around them, sporadic fires burned, but the major fires had already died away. Only one wall remained standing and it was wobbly at best. Strangely enough, the new front door came through the blast almost completely unscathed. It stood there in the crumbling remains of the frame mockingly as though daring one of them to knock it down or even to attempt to scar its fresh undamaged wood.   
Vyvyan eyed it contemptuously as though it were the cause of their explosive predicament, and he alone took it up on its dare.   
"Bloody fucking door!" he yelled trodding over to it. He kicked at it viciously, pounding it with his bare fists. He put all his anger and strength into the mighty assault, but the door did not budge. It didn't even give him the satisfaction of cracking. It merely stood there defiantly. He cursed it maliciously but still, it held its stance under the verbal barrage. His anger spent, he back away from it toward his colleagues.   
"So that's it, is it?" Rick asked. "That's all. Another house burns down, and we're left homeless again."   
"At least we've still got a door," said Neil in a morbid attempt at cheerfulness.   
"A door?" asked the shorter Mike. "Can a door provide us with shelter? Bring us food? Can I invite chicks round to my door for a quick shag?"   
"No," answered Neil. "I was only trying to brighten things up. You know 'Always look on the bright side of life . . .' " he sang with a grim smile.   
"Neil, shut up or I'll crucify _you_," Mike responded.   
"Would you guys the just shut the *whistle* up!?" the taller Mike shouted.   
"Mike!" gasped Micky, Peter and Davy simultaneously.   
"Well I'm sorry, but I'm fed up with it!" he exclaimed and began addressing Mike and the others. "You barge in on us, smash the place up, insult us, beat us up, kill our neighbour and then blow the place up!"   
"Just a normal day for us really," said Neil.   
"Yeah, you square!" Rick added.   
Mike looked as though he was going to explode with rage. His face was turning a very bright shade of red.   
"It could be worse, Mike," intervened Peter hoping to calm his rampaging friend.   
Mike tried not to yell at his innocent companion but simply couldn't control his growing temper. "How Peter?! How could it possibly be worse?!"   
"Well at least we still have the Monkee Mobile," he said trying desperately to be cheerful.   
Mike sighed as his eyes drifted over to his beloved car just in time to see the one wall left standing stop standing. Still partially ablaze, it toppled into the car's open top. The interior caught fire immediately and soon the entire car was enveloped in flame.   
"I wish I hadn't said that," Peter said.   
"I wish I had put the top back down yesterday," Micky said.   
"I wish I were in the Bahamas being served by voluptuous young girls whose religion caused them to reject clothing and demanded they perform oral sex on complete strangers every day, but it's not gonna happen," Mike said causally.   
"It could be worse Michael," Vyvyan stated.   
"Oh no, not you too Vyv."   
"At least we've still got my car." He regarded his car proudly confident of the fact that there were no more walls left to fall on it, just that annoyingly smug door and that was too far away to do his car any harm, unless it suddenly grew legs. Vyvyan disregarded this idea as implausible. He was quite surprised, however, to find a penguin sitting in the driver's seat. It was none other than Petey. Yes Petey Penguin. He was back, and he was one pissed off penguin.   
"Oh dear," said a distressed Vyvyan.   
Petey, seeing that he had everyone's attention, gave Vyvyan the finger which was very difficult considering penguins don't have any fingers and proceeded to explode on cue without aid of pyrotechnics.   
"I wish you hadn't said that," Peter said.   
"I wish I had never found that stuffed penguin when I thought it _was_ stuffed," said Micky.   
"I wish you would all just shut up!" Rick hollered.   
"My car!" Vyvyan exclaimed, uncharacteristically near tears.   
"He really could do it," Davy remarked. "I guess that'll set those critics straight."   
"You mean they're not straight?" Rick asked. "They're everywhere aren't they? Bloody fairies!"   
"Brrring! Brrring!" said a very familiar sounding bell.   
"Hey ho, did someone call the fairies?" said another voice from atop a bicycle. Coming down the road toward them was a very strange site indeed. Four men dressed in pale green tutus and even paler green tights sat piled on a bike complete with sidecar. They looked a bit like a very odd circus act. The fifth man, the driver, was wearing a dirty overcoat and ringing the bell.   
"Brrring! Brrring!"   
The crowded bike came to rest in front of them, and the four oddly dressed men got off.   
"That'll be fifteen quid," Billy said.   
"Who are you?" Rick questioned.   
"You know me! I'm Billy Balowski!" Billy said with a dumb grin.   
"No, not you!" Rick yelled viciously. "Them."   
"We're the Lentil Fairies," said one of the men as he pulled a green change purse out of his sequinned green top. He gave Billy the cash. "Keep the change, man!"   
"Thank you, sir!" Billy said saluting. He climbed back onto his bike and sat down showing no sign of peddling off.   
"You're the Lentil Fairies?" Neil asked amazed.   
"That's right, you wanna hear our demo?"   
"Demo?" Neil said confusion creasing his brow.   
"Sure our demo," said the man as he produce a wand. He waved it around ostentatiously and ineffectually while one of the others produced a tape recorder from behind his pale green wings.   
"I get it! You're a band!" Davy exclaimed.   
"Yeah of course! You didn't think we were really fairies, did you?"   
Every one shuffled their feet looking a bit embarrassed.   
"Actually," said one of the men raising his hand, "Bob and I are." He produced a wand from his, well I'm not going to say where, and proceed to wave it about "magically."   
The front man sighed. "Gary we've been through this before. You are not a fairy. Bob is not a fairy. You are in no way magical, and you cannot conjure up lentils by waving that damn wand."   
"Oh yeah," Bob said, "then how come my tights are full of lentils?"   
"I really don't want to know Bob. Anyway, yes we are a band."   
"So are we," Micky told him.   
"Looks like you guys are having some trouble."   
"Yeah, uh, our house burned down," Mike said. He decided it would be better not to go into specifics.   
"Tough break," the tuttued man went on, the demo tape forgotten. He glanced at his friends who seemed to confer silently. A decision having been made, he turned back to face the others. "Well you can crash at our place for a while if you want. It may be a little cramped, but we've got all the lentils you can eat."   
"Yeah!" intoned Gary. "And all the lentils you can shove down your pants!"   
"Why would they want to put lentils in their pants?!" the leader shouted.   
"Because it feels groovy," said Bob swishing his bottom around. "Oh yeah."   
"You'd let us stay at your place?" Peter asked gratefully.   
"Sure," said the man holding the demo tape, "anything for the Monkees."   
"How'd you know who we are?" Micky asked.   
"It's written on your car," he said motioning to the blackening hulk, "or what's left of it."   
"Well it looks like our problems our solved, if temporarily," the shorter Mike said.   
"You know, the craziest stuff happens to us," Rick stated. "I don't think I'd be surprised at anything that happens around here."   
He was wrong. They were just about to follow their strange new allies to their new, if temporary, home when machine gun fire filled the air. Startled, everyone hit the ground except Billy who remained sitting contentedly on his bike, oblivious to the ear-piercing noise. Round after round was fired until finally the sound ceased.   
Where twelve men had hit the deck, only eight got up. The Lentil Fairies were no more.   
"Dude, I told you so. Those were the guys who stole the lentils we stole," said the man with the gun. Four men stepped out of the shadows decked out in hippie gear: bell bottoms, flowing psychedelic smocks, love beads and long scraggly hair. One of them took a hit on a joint and passed it around to the next.   
"Groovy man. I knew we'd get them," said one of them and then fell to the ground unconscious.   
"I told you, Jimmy. Never mix LSD with Chlorox," said the man with the machine gun to the man lying on the ground.   
"Who are you?" Rick demanded.   
"Wait, wait, let me guess. You're the Homicidal Hippies, correct?" Mike said.   
"Cool, he knows who we are," the leader said to the others who giggled like, well like stoned hippies. "You wanna hear our demo?"   
"Not really," Mike said, but immediately found a machine gun levelled directly at his head. "Then again I think we can make time in our busy schedule."   
"Paul, make with the tape."   
Paul ignored him opting instead to swat at empty air with a fly swatter. "We can't stop here man, this is bat country!" he exclaimed.   
"Joe, get the tape from Paul."   
Joe passed the joint to Jimmy who didn't take it since he was unconscious. Approaching Paul was quite difficult as he was swinging wildly an imaginary bats. Every time Joe got near Paul to grab the tape he got swatted in face.   
"Damn bats are getting bigger all the time," Paul said as he smacked Joe on the nose.   
"Forget it man," Joe said taking the joint back and putting the fire out the had erupted on Jimmy's shirt.   
"Now wait a minute," the leader said, "I know we came here for a reason."   
Suddenly Billy jumped in. "Someone call for a taxi?"   
"Yeah, that was it, wasn't it?"   
The others weren't sure either, particularly Jimmy.   
"Oh well, it'll work," said the front man as he and his companions piled onto the bike.   
"So that's it, we're totally fucked," Vyvyan said.   
"Looks that way, doesn't it," replied Mike.   
"Look on the bright side guys . . ."   
"Shut up Neil!" came the response from all.   
Billy was the last to climb on the bicycle. His foot poised on the peddle to go, he looked back at the Monkees and the Young Ones. "I told you, you should have taken the taxi!" he shouted and sped off into the distance.   
"Bastard!" Rick called after him. 

The End (and this time I mean it!)

The author, viz. me, would like to apologize to the following people: Ben Elton, Rik Mayall and Lise Mayer (the writers/creators of the "The Young Ones") for nicking . . . er, I mean borrowing a few of their jokes. Otherwise, the bitch is mine, so bugger off! Thank you for your time.


End file.
